Devil's in the Details
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Roarke and Leslie battle Mephistopheles for Christian's soul. Follows 'Around the World in Eight Centuries'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _A very emotional piece. I got the idea just a month ago and had been so looking forward to writing this…and then got it done in four days. Geez, all the good ones go by too fast. (LOL!) I look forward to your comments, and as always, my gratitude to those who take time out not only to read but to review.  
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§ § § -- December 17, 2001 – near Grottaminarda, Italy

He paced the floor, as was his habit, his expensive hand-tooled-leather shoes clacking on the centuries-old flagstones of his open piazza. As usual, he was fuming: he always fumed after a visit from his daughter and son-in-law. He had never understood what she saw in that boy. Well, all right, they made a pretty pair; but he was a nobody, a lackwit, who tried hard but to little avail. They were church-mouse poor, and he was always bailing them out of some financial difficulty. The two of them seemed to be about a step and a half ahead of some bill collector or another at any given moment. If the girl had been like her sister and had some talent for growing things…but no, she seemed to want no part of the business, and was especially repulsed by her sister's end of it.

It had been so good for a few years. He could brag from one end of Grottaminarda to the other that his cherished little girl was a princess. No matter that she and the prince she'd been wed to didn't love each other: she had the title, and that was the only thing that mattered. And he had been the only grower of the spice on earth, quite conveniently trapping Lilla Jordsö's royal family into the deal; there had been no way in the world anyone could ever take his social status from him. The father of a princess! Now there'd been something to get him the respect he deserved.

But almost a year ago his world had crashed around him. From out of nowhere, a new grower of amakarna had turned up, with a better-quality spice and a lower selling price, and King Arnulf had arbitrarily broken their contract and signed on with this upstart. It had been a huge shock to him. He'd ranted and screamed at his representative in that frigid little northern country, but it had been pointed out to him that the king had the power to do as he would. Not only that, but the contract had been open-ended and non-binding. There was no stipulation that demanded the contract be honored till a certain date, no clause specifying that there would be consequences for breach. Foolishly, he had believed that there was no way for the king or his hapless younger brother to get out of the deal, and had left those loose ends untied, allowing both of them to slip out of the noose when the new grower had presented the king with his superior spice and his contract—a contract that, he'd heard, actually required Arnulf to dissolve the marriage between his brother and Marina! The prince had wasted little time fleeing halfway around the world to some woman he had apparently been in love with since just before being married to Marina. Even worse, his little girl had come home trumpeting to all and sundry that she was at last marrying the only man she had ever loved—Giuseppe Ognissanti's talentless youngest son. Within three days of her return, they'd been wed and now lived in a tiny three-room flat over a pub in Grottaminarda, perpetually in debt and scrambling to make their meager living, but oddly happy with each other. They were sickeningly in love, and it drove him mad.

But he had never seen Marina as happy as she was with Giancarlo. He could still remember her trying to explain things to him a couple of weeks after the wedding, the day he'd seen the popular magazines in the little market in town and been confronted with the sight of his daughter's prince and the woman he had married gazing blissfully out at the world from the covers of all of them. When he'd gone to tell Marina she'd lost the prince, she had shaken her head at him. "Papa, you know he was never really mine at all," she said. "I didn't want Christian and he didn't want me. You know I've always loved Giancarlo."

"How can you fail to love a prince, Marina _mia_?" he demanded incredulously. "Think of the things he could have given you—all the clothes and jewels he must have showered you with! All the influential people he must have known! All the sophisticated parties at which you could be seen with him! You would have known all the very best people…you would have been a woman of class and status!"

"What good is that when you're not happy, Papa?" Marina asked. "Has it been so long since Mama died that you've forgotten the wonder of being truly in love with a special person? That's what I feel for Giancarlo. I don't care about sparkling jewels and influential people, and my clothes were paid for by the royal treasury, not by Christian. When happiness is missing, even the best life can make you prefer death. I may be poor and struggling now, but I have my Giancarlo, and I am the happiest woman in all Italy." She had patted his cheek. "Papa, be happy for us, please. And please understand that I'm very glad for Christian and Leslie as well. They deserve to be happy together just as Giancarlo and I do. I have no grudge against Christian. We both knew from the beginning that our marriage was only in name. Why, we never even consummated it, didn't you know that? Don't try to force something that just isn't there, Papa. This is my life now and I'm so very happy."

"I can't understand it, Marina _mia_, I just can't," he said sadly. But he had accepted it, because he knew he had no choice. And in the end, he really couldn't begrudge Marina and Giancarlo their happiness. Giancarlo was truly in love with Marina and would have died for her without question, and he had to admit to himself that the boy's devotion to his little girl was admirable. Had this not been the case, he would have seen to it that some manner of harm came to Giancarlo, his longtime friendship with Giuseppe notwithstanding.

But that damned ungrateful prince…he should have seen what a treasure he had in Marina. It hadn't taken the count and Prince Christian very long to learn to hate each other. From the moment they had met, Christian had been hostile in the face of his smugness over having a prince for a son-in-law. The count had the upper hand, and Christian had known it all too well, which had always put him in a slow boil for the duration of the few visits he'd made with Marina before she'd started coming back alone. Christian would silently simmer, and he himself would pretend magnanimity, knowing there was no escape for the prince and feeling quite pleasantly drunk on the power he held over the young man.

But that didn't stop him from loathing the prince because the man stubbornly refused to fall in love with Marina. For some reason he loved some stray orphan girl on the other side of the world. Now, he'd heard of Roarke…who hadn't? As a matter of fact, a couple of generations back, his clan and the Roarke clan had been close friends before politics and wars and simple life choices had caused them to drift apart and lose touch. Now he and Marina were all that was left of the LiSciola clan, especially since Paola's death, and as far as he knew there had been only Roarke himself, the last of his own clan.

Well, that is, till that accursed Rogan Callaghan showed up. He supposed it was likely he ought to blame Callaghan for all this, or King Arnulf, but logic had no place in his loathing and it was Prince Christian on whom he focused his fury. He might as well: since Arnulf had died almost six months before, there was certainly no extracting restitution from him. And Callaghan, it had turned out, was a member of the Roarke clan. One way or the other, he had to get some kind of retaliation for the situation he was in now. He was the village laughingstock; people snickered behind his back, eyed him with open amusement whenever he showed his face in town, pointed and whispered and shook their heads. It was time for payback.

He stopped pacing finally and peered across the hills, an idea beginning to bloom in his mind. He was going to need outside help, and he knew of no one better to give him what he most wanted. He took a deep breath and spoke in the Latin he remembered from his childhood, during the heyday of the Roman Empire—a time he still missed. "I summon you, my old friend…I beg thee, heed me…"

After several minutes of repeated calls, he heard a deep sigh from behind and turned around with a welcoming smile. "Count LiSciola," his visitor said. "I should have known it was you. No one else calls me that way, and it's been ages since you did it. Is there some pressing emergency that requires my assistance?"

"Oh, that there is," Count LiSciola said with a deliberate nod. "I have a great dilemma; I want back what was mine. Of course, I can't have it…so I want revenge."

"Ah, revenge…such a lovely word. It makes me rejoice to hear it. So what, precisely, is the situation?"

"I'm sure you keep up with current affairs. My little girl was a princess for a few years, till some damned gardener appeared from the blue and made King Arnulf an offer he couldn't refuse. Now she's wed to a common laborer who can't get himself out of hock to everyone in the village, and her prince has married some nameless young woman he claims to be in love with. He was bound by the marriage contract his father and I drew up almost twenty-one years ago. I want him punished for breach—to understand that that contract was broken without proper authorization and to suffer the consequences! If you'll help me do that, Mephistopheles, my old friend, then you may have his immortal soul."

Mephistopheles eyed him, interest piqued slightly. It was an odd request. "A third-party sale?" he said thoughtfully. "Normally I don't get myself entangled in those. Far too many legal ramifications…and lawyers these days are absolute sharks. Give them a little leeway and they can get anyone out of trouble. They always find loopholes, and if there's one thing I simply loathe, it's loopholes. No, my friend, I think I'll pass on this one. Why don't you just learn to live with it? It's not as if you can't afford to support your daughter and her unsuccessful sweetheart, you know."

LiSciola drew himself up straight and gave Mephistopheles a small smile. "Ah, but there's more to it than you realize. I have a copy of the contract, properly signed, and I can present it for evidence. There's very little the prince can do in his own defense, you know. There can hardly be any problem with loopholes."

Mephistopheles shrugged skeptically. "Famous last words, my dear count, but I must admit you do have my curiosity stirred up. Where is the young prince now?"

"He rushed off to marry the woman he supposedly loves…some little child named Leslie. She's the adopted daughter of Roarke, of Fantasy Island."

Mephistopheles froze and stared at him; a slightly fanatical light leaped to life in his sharp brown eyes. _"Roarke!"_ he breathed. "Roarke, indeed! That man knows how to find every loophole in existence, and he is forever slipping through even the most carefully constructed traps." His gaze sharpened then. "LiSciola, your contract had better be airtight and as legally valid as it's possible to get, for if it isn't, you will regret it—make no mistake. Very well, I'll help you, for I just can't resist trying one more time for Roarke's soul, no matter how twisted the path I must take to get it. Leave your daughter some money to get herself and her young fool through a week or so, and get ready for a trip to Fantasy Island. I'll meet you there." He grinned with anticipation and vanished in a huge red flame.

Count LiSciola, rubbing his hands, rushed off to pack and make plane reservations. He didn't much care what Mephistopheles did with Roarke, just so long as he made sure to do away with Prince Christian in the process. Only then would he find peace.

§ § § -- December 22, 2001 – Fantasy Island

Roarke stood up quite straight when he recognized their next two guests. "Now that's a pair I never thought to see," he said.

Leslie scowled. "Well, well," she said. "So Mephistopheles is back. How ironic, since it's almost Christmas. Who's that with him?"

"One Count LiSciola," Roarke said slowly, glancing at Leslie, who curiously had no reaction. It occurred to him then that she didn't know or remember Marina's last name, and evidently Christian hadn't told her. "I am not certain what his part in all this may be."

"Well, it's pretty obvious that Mephistopheles wants your soul, as usual," Leslie said, "but how he expects to get it this time, I couldn't imagine. Didn't they tell you anything?"

Roarke shook his head. "You yourself have summarized things very nicely, my child," he said. "We will have to wait until their appointment at the main house before we learn anything more." His toast to their new guests was just perceptibly strained, and Leslie found herself squinting at the dark, pale-skinned man with Mephistopheles, trying to figure out what it was about him that was tickling her memory.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- December 22, 2001

Roarke deliberately sent Leslie to the hotel to handle a couple of minor dustups there before admitting Mephistopheles and Count LiSciola. The count, who had never been to Fantasy Island before, was staring around him with a surprisingly lively interest. "A very lovely place, Roarke," he remarked. "You've done very well for yourself. A shame your father and grandfather couldn't have known."

Roarke smiled slightly. "Thank you, Count. It has been untold years since your clan and mine had any contact, as I am sure you're aware…and it seems you are keeping some quite unsavory company nowadays."

Mephistopheles clucked his tongue. "For shame, Roarke…and you have such a reputation for unstinting hospitality, too. Don't you realize that the count has a modest little fantasy? I'm merely here to help him."

"Oh?" said Roarke. "Do you suddenly think me incapable of granting his fantasy on my own, or is this only another excuse for you to attempt to take my immortal soul?"

Count LiSciola gave him a curious look. "I wouldn't know anything about that, Roarke. Whatever lies between you and Mephistopheles is your affair. No, I have someone else in mind entirely. I've made a deal with my friend here, and since the soul in question resides on your island, it was necessary for us to come here to get it. Surely you won't miss the one, out of all the people who live here in your little kingdom?"

"I would," Roarke said. "Every soul on this island is my responsibility. Whose are you after in particular?"

"You haven't guessed?" the count asked mockingly. "Have you grown slow in your dotage, Roarke? I've promised Mephistopheles the immortal soul of Prince Christian. He committed a serious breach of contract when his brother ended my daughter's marriage to him, and I want him punished for it. My child was well off and in good hands, and now she's married to a stripling who can barely feed himself, never mind her."

Roarke stared at him. "You can do nothing about it now. Both your daughter's and my daughter's marriages are valid and legal, and there are no grounds on which you can instigate a divorce in either case. What basis can you possibly have for selling my son-in-law's soul? Not only that, how legal is it for you to do such a thing?"

Mephistopheles sighed tolerantly. "There are definitely some legal questions here," he agreed, "which was why I was initially reluctant…but then the good count here mentioned your name, and of course I just had to get in on the deal. I'm willing to overlook some of the dicier aspects of the thing if I can get a crack at you." He smirked.

"Indeed," Roarke said. "It appears that the item at the heart of all this is a marriage contract drawn up under secrecy; that, if I am not mistaken, is what is really under dispute, and you may both rest assured that the contract will undergo the most rigorous scrutiny before I allow either of you to even see Christian. And since Leslie is involved, you may also rest assured that you will be battling her as much as you will me."

Mephistopheles looked slightly apprehensive, shooting the count a sidelong look. "I think I should have listened to my instincts," he muttered, then caught Roarke's expression and glared. "But I'm in too deep now, Roarke, sorry. If there's even the smallest chance that somehow I can get your soul, I'll go for it. So don't think you'll squirm out of this so easily."

"There's nothing your daughter can do either, Roarke," the count said. "You can both fight until you drop from exhaustion, but that prince forfeits his soul, even if it's the very last event I ever witness in my long life." He turned to Mephistopheles. "I don't know what you have in mind for accommodations, but I intend to retreat to a bungalow and have a proper rest so that I can be fresh for the fight. Roarke, do you happen to know a lawyer around here who can examine the contract?"

"There is only one on the island," Roarke said guardedly. "I shall get in touch with him and explain the situation, and he can decide for himself what he will do." He gave them both a chilly nod. "If you will excuse me…" he hinted.

Mephistopheles shrugged and wandered out the French shutters into the trees; the count nodded back, a surprisingly amiable mien about him in the face of Roarke's glacial treatment, and consented to be driven to his bungalow by one of Roarke's employees. Roarke stood behind the desk, waiting to be sure the man was well and truly out of his sight; then he drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and closed his eyes just for a moment before punching out a three-digit number on the phone.

"Grady Harding," a voice answered.

"Good morning, Mr. Harding, this is Mr. Roarke," Roarke began.

Grady's voice warmed. "Good morning, Mr. Roarke, what can I do for you?"

"You may prefer not to do anything when you hear the details," Roarke said. "I have a guest here who has asked for your services in examining a contract that he claims has been breached. There is…apparently some legal question in regard to it…and he is trying to ascertain that it's watertight. However, before you agree, you should be aware that you may be too close to some of those involved in the situation. The contract is the one that bound Christian in marriage to the daughter of my guest."

There was a moment's silence on the other end. "I see," Grady mused finally. "I admit I don't have the whole story. My wife knows more than I do, but I'm not sure just how much. But let me tell you what I do know, Mr. Roarke, and you can advise me as to how correct, or incorrect, I am. This contract was drawn up sometime after Christian's first wife died, and it's my understanding that it was done without his knowledge and that he was forced to honor the thing when the young woman came of age. Is this right?"

"Yes," said Roarke. "What else are you aware of?"

"That somehow Rogan Callaghan superseded it with his own contract," Grady said, "though I don't know quite how. I'm not versed in Lilla Jordsö's laws, and I have to assume that whatever King Arnulf did to release Christian from the arranged marriage, it was legal in that country. Without having seen the contract, I really can't speculate any further."

"Understandable," Roarke said. "My question to you now is, do you feel that you can examine the contract and advise as to its validity, without bias toward one side or the other? If not, I certainly won't hold it against you; in fact, I might be relieved."

Grady laughed. "I see what you mean, Mr. Roarke. As much as I'd like to get a look at the thing, I think you'd better call in someone else. I consider Christian a friend, and I really don't think I could give this the impartiality it deserves."

Roarke nodded, at just the moment Leslie walked in the door. "Of course, Mr. Harding. I thank you for your honesty—that's always been a quality I could count on from you. Thank you for your time."

"Not at all, Mr. Roarke. Good luck," Grady said, and they bid each other goodbye and hung up. Leslie approached the desk with surprise on her face.

"Some reason you were talking to Grady?" she asked, sitting in one of the chairs.

Roarke nodded and settled himself more comfortably in his chair, taking another deep breath and regarding his daughter with a grave look. "Leslie, I must ask you to try to remain calm," he said. "You were correct about Mephistopheles having come here to try once again for my soul; but his companion has no interest in that. He _is_ here for a reason, however." He paused, wondering if there were any way to say this without sending her into hysterics. Wryly he doubted it, and decided the only thing to do was just to tell her straight out and let the chips fall where they would. "Count LiSciola is Marina's father, and he has recruited Mephistopheles in an attempt to prove that Christian committed breach of contract by ending his marriage to her and then marrying you. He wants Christian punished, his idea of which is to sell Christian's immortal soul to the devil."

Leslie sat up ramrod-straight and gaped at him, her eyes huge, her mouth open. "He's trying to do _what?"_ she breathed.

Roarke nodded slightly once or twice. "I'm sorry, child."

But it wasn't fury that exploded from her: it was stark terror. "No," she cried, leaping to her feet. "This can't be happening. Father, I've got to bring Christian here. If he's anywhere else, Mephistopheles could just as easily wander off with him, as long as he thinks he has even a tiny claim on him."

"Leslie…" Roarke began.

"He's not getting my husband without the worst fight he's ever faced!" Leslie shouted and raced out of the house without waiting for a response. Roarke sighed deeply and let himself sag in the chair. Perhaps she was right; as often as not, instinctive reactions were the wisest ones. Christian's business would survive without him for a couple of days; he was better off here, under whatever protection they could offer him.

The office of Enstad Computer Services had been very quiet all morning; it was just before Christmas, and over the years Christian had learned to expect a lull during this part of the holiday season. One of his busiest periods tended to occur afterward, when people who had received new computers for Christmas decided to indulge themselves with all sorts of internet treats, including their own personal websites. Others might receive gifts of hardware upgrades; new gimcracks such as CD burners, web cameras, extra hard drives, fancy game hardware; and other such things. Most of them had no idea how to install all this, and that was another service Christian provided. This, too, was waiting for the post-Christmas rush. He had given Jonathan the day off in addition to Mateo's regularly scheduled free day, so that Julianne and Anton were the only others in the office.

Julianne looked up. "You and Miss Leslie doing anything special for Christmas, Boss Prince?" she asked curiously.

Christian laughed. "Nothing much, no. It's our first Christmas together, and we're just going to spend our time alone with each other." He leaned back in his chair and stretched both arms over his head. "I've been through pre-Christmas lulls before, but this is the worst I've ever known. I've been thinking—"

It was at exactly that moment that a figure streaked past the window, clattered to a halt and threw open the door so that the holiday bells Julianne had hung on it jangled loudly. Christian stood up in astonishment even as Leslie flew at him and seized his arm. "You've got to come with me now," she cried out.

"What? Why?" Christian exclaimed. "Leslie, what's wrong?"

"You can't stay here," she babbled, frenetic with panic. "It's not safe for you to be out in the open like this—he could show up and grab you anytime. _Please!"_ Leslie's voice was a near shriek. Julianne and Anton stared at her; neither they nor Christian had ever seen her in such a state, and it unnerved them all. She began to pull him after her, trying to get him out the door; but he resisted, bewildered and slightly annoyed.

"Leslie, calm down," Christian said sternly, bracing himself against her attempts to tow him along. He reached out and brought her around to face him, searching her face and registering some alarm at sight of the sheer panic gleaming in her eyes. "Does Mr. Roarke know you're in this state? Why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"Mephistopheles is after you!" she cried. "Christian, my love, please, don't argue with me! Come on, come on!" Once more Leslie attempted to pull him out with her.

"Oh, you can't possibly be serious," Christian exclaimed in disbelief.

"I'm telling you, it's true!" Leslie insisted, on the fine edge of hysteria. He gaped at her in amazement, some vestige of her fear beginning to transfer itself to him in spite of his better judgment. "Christian, I'm begging you, just come with me!" He could see the tears that had filled her eyes, and as always, they undid him. He sighed heavily and gave in.

"All right, my Rose, all right—just give me a chance to get my things here." He pulled loose from her and opened a desk drawer while she watched his every move; as he took out a set of keys, he addressed his employees. "Anton, I figured we might as well close up shop in any case. It's so slow this weekend, there's not much point. We can open again on Wednesday, all right? You two go on home, and Anton, you can lock up behind you. It seems I have other business to attend to." Christian cast Leslie a wry, bewildered, yet affectionate smile. "Before my wife loses what little is left of her wits, I'd better go on with her. Enjoy your time off, and Merry Christmas to you both."

"Merry Christmas, Christian," Anton said faintly.

"Thanks, Boss Prince," Julianne added, blinking. "I sure hope everything's okay."

"_Christian!"_ Leslie persisted frantically.

Losing some of his patience, Christian slammed the desk drawer shut and grabbed the thermal coffee mug he took to work every day. "Damn it, Leslie, will you please calm down? I'm coming, all right?" He muttered something in _jordiska_ and shook his head, then tossed an apologetic smile at Julianne and Anton. "See you two Wednesday." They nodded as he came out from behind the desk, only to have Leslie seize his arm again and start for the door. The last thing Anton and Julianne heard was their boss' startled curse as she yanked him out the door and towed him along to the waiting car parked nearby.

"What was that all about?" Anton asked. "Never have I seen Miss Leslie quite so hysterical. Does this happen often?"

"No, it doesn't happen at all," Julianne said, giving him a worried stare. "Miss Leslie isn't the type to go that ballistic. It must be something really serious for her to drag Boss Prince out the door like that. Y'know, maybe we better get out of here before whatever it is that's got her so nutty decides to come after us too." Anton rolled his eyes at that and they both laughed, but their laughter bore an uneasy quality and they wasted little time straightening up, locking the office and leaving for home.

Leslie hit the gas the moment she'd backed out of her space and sent the car careening out of town and down the Ring Road; Christian grabbed the dashboard and gawked at her. "What in hell is going on around here, Leslie?" he demanded, beginning to get really upset now. "Why aren't you explaining anything to me? It would be nice if you'd get some control over yourself and tell me precisely what justifies your coming in and making such a scene back there. Do you have any idea what you looked like? Leslie, damn it, are you even listening to me?" Instead of responding she slammed on the brakes enough to make the sharp turn into the lane, throwing up such a cloud of dust that they almost couldn't see around them. Giving up, Christian braced himself and squeezed his eyes shut till she'd come to a skidding stop beside the fountain; then he looked around and shook his head hard.

"Come on, Christian, _now!"_ Leslie wailed, still frantic, flying around the front of the car and trying to tug him out of the seat. It was the last straw for Christian; he yanked his arm out of her grasp, finally losing his temper.

"Do you mind?" he barked at her. "I'm quite capable of moving on my own, thank you! For the last time, will you please explain what in hell you think you're doing?" He swung out of the car and glared at her; she wasn't accustomed to having his wrath directed at her, but she was in such a state that even this didn't snap her out of it.

"Just get in here with me," she insisted and fled out ahead of him, scaling the steps in two jumps before Christian had even rounded the fountain. He cursed in frustration and broke into a run of his own. They both burst into the study, surprising the two occupants thereof; and Leslie stopped short at the top of the steps, inevitably causing Christian to collide with her. Again he cursed, then belatedly noticed Roarke and his guest and froze, just as his wife had done.

"In a hurry, are we?" Mephistopheles asked, amused.

"Don't you even come near my husband," Leslie lashed out, her whole body trembling with rage and fear. "You have no right and no claim on him!"

Mephistopheles stared at her, his amusement increasing. "My dear girl, do calm down. This hysteria really doesn't become you at all."

"I'll agree with that," Christian said disgustedly, throwing Leslie a look of pure annoyance. "I have no idea what's causing all this, and she's so beyond rationality that no amount of demanding will get her to tell me. Maybe you'll do me the favor, Mr. Roarke." He stepped around Leslie and into the study, ignoring her when she lunged down the steps after him and seized his hand.

Roarke had taken all this in with mute surprise. Gauging the level of Leslie's fright and Christian's irritation, he said, "Why don't you have a seat, Christian. And Leslie, please, calm yourself. Have you explained this to him?"

"No, she hasn't," Christian snapped, pinning Leslie with another glare. She looked faintly betrayed, and there was still hysteria glinting in her eyes; her wits were too scattered yet for her to speak. "Exactly what is the reason for all this?"

Mephistopheles had been watching him; now he leaned casually on Roarke's desk and said, "I am, my dear prince. Since your wife here seems incapable of enlightening you, let me do the honor. Someone has promised me your soul, and I decided to come and see just what it is I'll be getting." He smiled.

Christian stared at him. "Excuse me?"

"Christian," Roarke said quietly, "may I present Mephistopheles."

That made Christian go still for a moment and peer at Roarke with some caution, as if trying to decide whether all this was one very strange joke. Then he studied the slim, spare-featured man in the black suit, a distinctly skeptical look on his face. "You're kidding, of course, aren't you? All of you?"

Behind him Leslie gasped aloud; Roarke looked alarmed, and Mephistopheles let out a chuckle. "Ah, I see…another unbeliever. You know, Roarke, maybe this human guise of mine is just too good. Should I show him the horns, do you think? Or no…better yet, I have another way of convincing you, young man."

"Don't touch him!" Leslie shrieked, panicking again. Roarke glared warningly at her.

"Leslie Susan, be silent!" he commanded urgently, his dark eyes blazing. "Christian—"

"Oh, Roarke, come on now, don't tell me you want to spoil my fun," Mephistopheles complained lightly. "Let's see…ah, I have it. Young man, why don't you go out to the terrace there and bring back one of those lovely blossoms on the bushes, hm?"

More puzzled than ever, Christian shrugged. "All right, if you like." He started across the room, tossing Mephistopheles one uncertain glance over his shoulder before going out and picking a flower at random off the hedge that bordered the terrace. He came back in, studying the bright red petals and the glossy green leaves. "Will this do?"

"Very nicely," Mephistopheles said. "Just hand it to me, if you would." Christian gave it to him, then watched in slack-jawed astonishment as the flower promptly shriveled up in Mephistopheles' hand and became little more than a dead gray stem.

"_Herregud,"_ Christian whispered, eyes enormous. "Why…?"

"Dainty little thing, wasn't it? And as your father-in-law here can surely tell you, nothing delicate can live in my presence. Fortunately for you, young man, you look rather less than delicate…but no matter. In the end, you still belong to me." He smirked. "I look forward to it. Roarke, why don't you tell him the rest." With that, Mephistopheles walked casually out across the terrace and disappeared again.

"Well, Christian?" Roarke said quietly. Both he and Leslie had been watching, Roarke in a grim silence, Leslie on the edge of completely losing it. She stood now gripping the edge of the desk, her whole body still shaking, even to the point where her jaw rattled with the force of her combined fear for Christian and her relief that Mephistopheles hadn't done anything directly to him.

"It…it _was_ Mephistopheles, wasn't it," Christian breathed. It was clear to Roarke that he had finally been convinced beyond all doubt; even a magician couldn't have pulled off the little trick Mephistopheles had. Roarke nodded, and he blew out his breath and collapsed into a chair. "Well, all right then, what is this all about? What does he mean, I belong to him? That makes no sense to me. I couldn't get Leslie to explain, in the middle of her very vocal madness…"

"Why didn't you just listen to me?" Leslie cried out at him. "Don't you know me well enough by now to know that I don't make a habit out of that kind of thing? My God, Christian, I was trying to save you!"

"Save me from _what?"_ Christian exploded, his frustration surging up again. "I still don't understand what's happening here, or what that man wants with me! Frankly, Leslie, you struck me as decidedly certifiable, stumbling in as you did and screaming hysterically and trying to drag me away with you. And this in front of my employees as well!"

Leslie slammed her fist on the desk, making Roarke wince faintly on her behalf and then quietly brace himself. "Damn you, Christian Enstad, he wants your immortal soul!" she screamed, boiling over. "Don't you understand? How much more plainly can either Father or I make the statement? What would it have taken to get you to take me seriously? After five years of knowing me…after I _warned_ you, for God's sake, the day after we were married and you all but sold him your own soul, never mind having someone else do it for you…after I learned of his threat today and came after you in the hope of putting you under some sort of protection—and you still think I'm just a raving lunatic?" She raked both hands through her hair and turned to Roarke. "Father, please, before I throw something expensive in here, would you explain it to him? Maybe if it comes from you, it'll finally sink through that thick skull of his! I'm going out to make some rounds, if you don't mind." Before Roarke could give either assent or denial, she wheeled around and slammed out of the house.

The utter silence that followed her infuriated departure seemed louder somehow than her voice. Christian was still gaping at the spot where she had been standing, stunned into complete speechlessness. Slowly, in a daze, he turned his shocked stare on Roarke, who nodded and let out his breath. "She is correct, Christian," he said quietly. "Leslie's apparent hysteria stems from her incredible fear for you, and it's not misplaced. You are in far more danger than you seem to realize, and I think it's best that you remain here in the house. You'll stay here overnight along with Leslie, and remain on the premises until such time as we are required to meet Mephistopheles."

Christian fell back in the chair, real fear glinting from his eyes for the first time. "I understand, Mr. Roarke," he said softly. "As you say."

"As _I_ say?" Roarke echoed, just as softly, his tone gentle but reproachful. "Christian, Leslie has been my assistant for well over ten years—more than long enough for any warning she gives you to be taken with equal gravity to my own." He watched Christian swallow hard and close his eyes, and drew himself up straight before speaking again, more kindly. "Feel free to help yourself to any reading material or any of the audio or video media we have upstairs, or even play on the computer here to pass the time. I will be back for lunch." He waited long enough for Christian's slight nod before excusing himself and leaving.

In the silent study, Christian slowly wilted forward, rested his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands, wondering bleakly what he had done to gain the attention of Mephistopheles in the first place_. If my father ever hoped while he was alive that the devil would take me,_ he thought with black humor, _then he would be thrilled by what's happening to me now._ Some peculiar need drove him upstairs to Leslie's old room, where he settled uncertainly into the window seat and stared blankly through a haze of sudden tears at her weekend duffel sitting on the bed. "I'm sorry, my Rose," he whispered at last. "I'm so sorry…please, believe me, my darling…please, come back and let me say it to you…"


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- December 22, 2001

Roarke came back alone for lunch, making Christian's uneasiness grow all the more; he found himself picking at his own food, annoying Mariki. "Oh, no, not another one," she groaned. "You must have picked up that habit from Miss Leslie. What is it with people these days, that they're so afraid of getting fat that they don't eat properly? Or maybe it's just my cooking, eh? At the very least, Prince Christian, you could clear up what's on that plate in front of you—"

"Mariki, that will be enough," said Roarke, his voice quiet but filled with such stern warning that Mariki promptly backed down and left them alone. "I apologize, Christian."

Christian shrugged listlessly. "Oh, she doesn't know," he murmured. "I think it's best that way. Wasn't Leslie planning to return here?"

"It doesn't seem so," Roarke said, not without sympathy. "This is a dire situation, and in such instances she can find herself in emotional turmoil for prolonged periods. I'm afraid you will merely have to wait it out…and just continue to love her."

"I have no control over that," Christian said softly, his eyes filling again. "I could no more stop loving Leslie than I could stop breathing. I only wish for the chance to explain myself to her, to make it up to her somehow."

Roarke smiled slightly. "We will do all we can to see that you have it," he said gently. "Try to finish eating, Christian. I know you're restless and frightened, but you can't let that govern all your actions. I will be here for some time this afternoon; I need to try to track down an attorney before I make some rounds."

"I could do that for you, if you like," said Christian, seizing on the opportunity to do something besides sitting around. "If I'm under house arrest anyway, I may as well, so that you can get on with other things."

Roarke regarded him in surprise. "That's a generous offer, Christian, and I appreciate it. Although you may retract it when you find out—" He stopped when Mariki returned, this time pushing her cart in front of her. "A problem?"

"Since Prince Christian isn't eating, I may as well clear his plate," Mariki said tartly, already removing items that Roarke and Christian were finished with.

Christian eyed her. "Maybe," he said, a thread of subtle warning in his own voice now, "you should wait until I've told you I'm ready for you to do that." Roarke recognized the imperial quality to the suggestion, a sign of the royal persona that Christian could never shake no matter what he did. It had been ingrained in him from birth, and Roarke had no doubt that he wasn't even aware he was employing it now.

It worked, too: Mariki froze, stared at him, then cleared her throat and actually gave him a slight bow. "As you will," she said and retreated without another word. Christian turned back to his plate and regarded it in glum silence.

Roarke took out his gold watch and checked the time, then replaced it; the small snap as he closed it made Christian look up. "I am afraid I must leave," Roarke said, pushing back his chair. "What with this being the Christmas season, there are far more vacationers here at the moment than fantasizers, and there are actually more problems under these circumstances than normally. I appreciate your offer, Christian, and thank you once again. Please excuse me." Christian nodded silently and watched him cross the veranda; once Roarke was gone, he lost himself in gloom, staring unseeingly into space, wondering with little hope whether, if he sat here long enough, Leslie might find him here and he could talk to her. She had to come back sometime, didn't she?

"Excuse me, Prince Christian, are you ready yet?" asked Mariki's unusually tentative voice from behind him, and he gave a sharp start and sat up straight. When he saw who it was, he relaxed fractionally and offered a wan smile.

"I'm sorry, Mariki…please, go ahead," he said softly and arose from the table. Slowly he crossed the veranda and let himself into the study, looking around with some caution before locating a telephone directory and settling at the desk to try to chase down an attorney for Roarke. Other than Grady Harding, there were only three listed, all on Coral Island. Not wanting to interrupt his friend's afternoon off with Maureen and Brianna, Christian tried the first of the others and received only an answering service, with whom he declined to leave a message. About to call the second, he paused when the door opened and someone dressed in a business suit topped by a long navy-blue cape entered the foyer. "Roarke?" the newcomer called.

Something about the voice made Christian go tense, and he said warily, "I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke isn't here…" The figure turned to stare—and the moment their eyes met, Christian bolted out of the chair while the visitor shot to attention.

"_You!"_ Christian spat.

"So there you are," Count LiSciola said, stepping into the study and approaching the desk. Both he and Christian glared at each other, mutual hatred burning in their eyes. "And how do you find the married life lately, young prince? I hope you're enjoying it, because I'm about to put an end to you."

"Is that so?" Christian demanded. "And exactly how do you propose to do that?"

The count smiled coldly. "Very simple. I contacted an old friend of mine and offered him a bargain. I'm going to have you brought to justice for breach of contract, and then your soul will belong to Mephistopheles for eternity."

Christian stared at him, his rage rising to something dangerous; puzzle pieces clicked into place in his mind, and he found a great many of his questions answered. So this was the reason the devil had an interest in him. He should have known Count LiSciola was behind this somehow. Even if Arnulf and he hadn't made their peace, it wouldn't be possible for his brother to do anything, being dead; and he knew of no one else who hated him enough to go to such lengths. Despite his equally intense loathing of the count, he still found it a little unnerving to know that anyone despised him that much. He wondered, fleetingly, for just a black second or two, if perhaps Leslie shared that emotion… He pushed it aside instantly and flattened his palms on the desktop, leaning forward to pin the count with a glare that carried all the power of his intense fury, resentment and detestation of the man. "And just where do you think you get the right to sell off my soul, you aging fool?"

"In here, young prince," the count said, patting his suit jacket. "I have the original contract that I drew up with your father and brother all those years ago. You broke it, and you're going to pay for it."

"You're insane," snapped Christian. "I wasn't the one who broke the contract: it was my brother. I was only the unlucky victim—the pawn in your amakarna game. How could it be my doing to breach the thing if I didn't have the power?"

The count snarled, "What does it matter? Where else will I go for my revenge? Your brother and father are both dead, so that leaves you. And before you think breach is the sole reason I want you punished, I should also tell you that the biggest reason for my hatred of you is the fact that you refused to love my little girl. How could anyone not love my Marina? She's the sweetest girl in the universe…and yet you scorned her."

"You idiot," Christian said. "You seem to forget that Marina didn't love me either, and we were both in love with other people atop that. Forcing two people into marriage doesn't automatically bring about love. And you might be astounded to find that even your sugary-sweet little girl isn't automatically loved, or lovable, by everyone around her, just because you believe she should be. What am I going to have in common with a child seventeen years younger than I? What will she have in common with me? She was long in love with her Giancarlo even before you and my father threw us together. It doesn't seem to occur to you that she was no happier in the marriage than I was."

"She was secure," the count shot back, "and she had a high position in society…"

"Oh, that," Christian spat mockingly. "The all-important class status. If you're looking for some way to try to hook me up with your daughter again, then maybe you should know that I'm no longer a prince. The same day Arnulf annulled the union between me and Marina, I filed paperwork for relinquishment of the title. It went into effect this past summer—so even if you could somehow dissolve Marina's marriage to Giancarlo and mine to Leslie, it wouldn't restore her to quite the lofty social circles you seem to cherish so."

The count shrugged. "Little matter, that. You might not be officially a prince, but you are still one of the royal family, and you can never change that. Does your status as uncle to Queen Gabriella end along with your princedom? I think not. In any case, that's not what I'm after, young prince. Even I am aware that I can't arbitrarily end my daughter's marriage to her stripling, or yours to Roarke's daughter. But it's my intention to make certain you pay. Tell me all you like that it wasn't you who committed the breach—as I told you, you're the only one left alive for me to exact revenge on, and I will get it…I guarantee you that. This contract is my ticket to some peace of mind."

"Let me see it," Christian commanded, unconsciously issuing a royal edict. The count heard the imperial tone in his voice and eyed him tauntingly.

"Why should I?" he asked. "You're no prince now, to order me so."

Christian glared at him, the full force of his fury and loathing blazing out of his eyes. "Are you so afraid of losing your fight that you dare not show it to me?"

"You have no need to see it," the count informed him loftily, drawing himself up to his full height. "In any case, you'll see it tomorrow evening, when we all meet with Mephistopheles to prove to him that you broke a valid contract and he takes possession of your soul. That's quite soon enough for you. But it does remind me…has Roarke found a lawyer to examine it?"

Christian's mouth dropped open with the realization that this was why Roarke had mentioned calling attorneys. "No, and he doesn't have time," he said frigidly. "I had offered to do it for him—but now that I know why he wanted to contact one, I won't bother." He suddenly smiled, a supremely icy smile that actually discomfited the count enough for it to show on his face. "I see no reason for an attorney to look at the thing anyway. Mephistopheles and Mr. Roarke will undoubtedly pick it apart just as thoroughly as any lawyer ever could, if not more. And you may well find at that point that your quest for revenge will end very differently from what you expect. I have a few revelations up my sleeve."

"Oh, do you indeed?" the count inquired silkily. "I look forward to hearing them. I've been told that both Roarke and your wife will be there on your behalf. Good thing—you'll need all the help you can get, young prince." He smirked at Christian and gave a slight, contemptuous bow. _"Buon Natale…Christian."_ From his lips, the name was an epithet that made him snicker loudly. "I have no doubt Mephistopheles will insist you change your name after he takes you." With that, he sauntered out of the house.

Seething with fury and having no outlet for it, Christian stood there shaking for a long moment. He drew in a long unsteady breath and took slow, deliberate steps to the French shutters, where he paused just long enough to clench his fists; then he spotted a small rock lying at the back of the flagstone patio, went over to pick it up, and hurled it into the jungle with all his strength. His wife was furious with him, the devil was after him, and that damned count was the cause of it all. Could fate never leave him alone to enjoy his own life? Christian crouched there on the terrace, breathing hard, and began to quietly recite every curse he knew in every language he'd ever learned curses from.

‡ ‡ ‡

"Leslie, you can't let this go on," Roarke scolded his daughter gently when she came up the porch steps with an overnight bag in her hand. "How are you going to present a united front with us to Mephistopheles when the time comes to confront him?"

She stopped at the top of the steps, her face carefully blank but her eyes filled with a volatile emotional mix. "He didn't believe me, Father," she said without inflection. "I warned him and he didn't believe me. Don't you realize how much that hurts?"

"He's frightened and confused, child," Roarke said, coming to her and grasping her upper arms. "You seem to have developed the habit of expecting any and all to simply accept the way of things on this island, without question or reaction. You've lived here for half your life, and you've had all that time to adjust to it. Christian hasn't. You must allow him that leeway, Leslie, and be patient with him. Try to remember how many years it took you to fully accept all that happens here—in fact, there are yet some things you evince amazement at. Don't you remember your own reaction just last year to Athena's visit?"

"It barely took me a few minutes to accept it when you assured me it really was her," Leslie said, and he could hear the old familiar stubbornness in her voice. "But that was just Athena. This is Mephistopheles—a real threat. Christian should have taken me seriously when I gave him that warning, and he didn't!" Her voice rose, and for just a moment Roarke thought she was going to detonate; then she clamped her mouth shut and visibly reined in her emotions once more.

Roarke shook his head. "You disappoint me, Leslie," he said softly. "You refuse to make allowances for Christian, and now you're holding your feelings in again."

"That's my problem," Leslie said. "Right now, if I see Christian, I don't know what I might do. I thought he trusted in me, of all people, and I can see he didn't." She closed her eyes briefly, drew in a steadying breath and carefully composed herself before focusing on Roarke again. Lifting the overnight bag, she said, "Would you give this to Christian, please? I'm going over to supervise the luau. Don't expect me back till it's ended."

Roarke accepted the bag, regarding her with a look that he could see was getting to her. But it wasn't enough to change her sense of purpose; as soon as he took the bag, she turned away and walked briskly down the steps and along the lane towards the path that would take her to the luau. Once more he shook his head and carried the bag into the house; an idea occurred to him in the study and he continued up the stairs, deliberately leaving the overnight case in Leslie's room. Then he went to the TV room in search of Christian.

The younger man looked up when Roarke paused in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Why don't you come and have something to eat, Christian," Roarke suggested kindly and stepped back, as if to make room for Christian to pass. "I hear from Mariki that she's managed to find another dessert recipe from Lilla Jordsö and decided to try it out at this evening's meal. She would appreciate your assessment."

Christian thought that over for a moment, shrugged and got up. "Well enough, I guess. Thank you, Mr. Roarke." Roarke let him slip by, sighed quietly and followed his son-in-law downstairs and onto the porch. Once Christian realized that Leslie would be absent from this meal as well, he sank into a bleak silence and ate without seeming to notice what was on the plate in front of him.

Then Mariki came out with her dessert and presented Christian with a small plate on which rested something that resembled a puff pastry, drizzled in chocolate glaze and dusted liberally with powdered sugar. For the first time Christian's expression came alive with honest amazement. _"Dehär är en jordsklocka!"_ he exclaimed without thinking.

"What?" Mariki said, startled.

"Excuse me?" Roarke asked, almost apologetically.

Christian blinked and looked up at Mariki, then at Roarke, and smiled sheepishly. "Forgive me," he said. "This is a pastry known as _jordsklocka_—the name means 'earth bell' in English, and it's a specialty of my country. There's a legend behind this, too. Where did you get this recipe, Mariki? There's a bakery in Dalslund, the second-largest city in Lilla Jordsö, that is the sole producer of these pastries, and I can't believe they've made their recipe public after so many years. I suppose that's the influence of the Internet."

Mariki grinned. "I thought you could use some cheering up, Prince Christian, and it looks to me like it worked. So what's the legend?"

"Oh, that." Christian chuckled softly and picked up the little pastry, examining it as he spoke. "The story goes that when King Johan V wanted to found a university in our country, he set about making it as unique as he could. The school still stands nowadays; it's our first institution of higher learning, actually, and I myself studied most of my computer courses there. Anyhow, among other things, he made the grounds quite open, filled them with both flower and vegetable gardens, and insisted that a great deal of glass be used in the buildings to make the most use of natural light. And in the main building, which now houses the administrative offices, he had a belfry built, with an enormous cast-iron bell that could be heard for many kilometers—so they say.

"Then we had one of our notorious winter storms, the sort we get off the North Sea on such a regular basis that we're always amazed when visitors are taken aback by them. This one turned out to be particularly vicious and left behind an incredible amount of damage. Among other things, it somehow knocked that bell out of its belfry, and when the storm had passed, the staff and faculty found it lying on its side on the grounds, cracked beyond repair. It had to be melted down and used for other purposes, but it left the school without a bell. And there was no recasting it, since the original mold had been broken. It took months to find a company that was willing to accept the challenge of constructing a bell worthy enough of the school to satisfy the king. In the meantime, no one could bear the thought of there being no bell in the school belfry—so someone came up with the decidedly unique solution of sculpting a bell from clay, firing it, and hanging it in the belfry until the replacement was ready."

"A ceramic bell?" Mariki said and laughed. "Wouldn't get much sound from that."

"No, you wouldn't," Christian agreed with a faint grin. "There are some clay deposits along our southwestern coast, and some folks from a small town there, coincidentally called Enstad, collected enough clay from the soil and did the work of sculpting and even hanging the temporary bell. It remained in the belfry for somewhat more than two years, until it was finally replaced by the bell that still hangs there to this day. The students made a joke of it, but when it was replaced, the ceramic bell was ceremoniously placed under glass in the administrative building and can be seen there today. These pastries are a tribute to that bell. Clay, of course, is a form of earth…thus, 'earth bell', or _jordsklocka_ in my native tongue."

"Quite the story," Mariki said with interest.

"A town that was 'coincidentally' called Enstad?" Roarke said, leaning forward to give Christian a quizzical look that was punctuated by a twinkle. "How coincidentally?"

Christian laughed and admitted cheerfully, "You caught me, Mr. Roarke! King Johan the Fifth is famous for other things than his university and its bell. He had only one child, a daughter whose name was Kristina. One day, King Paolono III of Arcolos visited our country, met Princess Kristina, and was very taken with her. He proposed marriage, but she turned him down: and it turned out that he had to live with her refusal, because Princess Kristina was needed for the succession and we would have been forced to find someone to take over the throne had she married Paolono and moved to Arcolos. Fortunately for us, Arcolos has a strange law that forbids a monarch from marrying the only child of another country's monarch…"

Roarke grinned. "Don't think it too strange, Christian. That very law prevented the current king from spiriting Leslie off for the same purpose."

Christian raised an eyebrow; some of the humorous light drained from his eyes, but he smiled nonetheless. "Ah…I see I had better appreciate it all the more, then! Well, in any case, that law prevented Magnus Ormssvärd's dynasty from coming to an ignominious end. The king was sent packing back to Arcolos, and shortly thereafter Kristina met a young man by the name of Peter Enstad. It so happened that his father had emigrated from Sweden and founded the village that bore their name. Kristina and Peter were married, and that's why the royal family name is Enstad. A name like that was unusual in those days. Scandinavian surnames traditionally worked as they still do in Iceland, where if your father is Sigurd and you are born Jón, your name will be Jón Sigurdsson and your sister would be Anna Sigurdsdóttir; however, your son Karl will be Karl Jónsson and your daughter Edda will be Edda Jónsdóttir. The idea of taking on a surname that could be passed on through the generations didn't originate in Lilla Jordsö, but it took hold there a little sooner than in the other countries. Peter and Kristina Enstad were the first in the royal family to use it; it dates back to something like 1830 or so. My sister would know the exact year." He smiled again, then finally bit into the pastry.

Mariki watched him intently, and Roarke looked on with amusement; Christian sat and chewed, his gaze turned inward, and finally swallowed. Then he looked at Mariki and gave her a slow smile of appreciation. "An excellent job, Mariki," he said quietly. "It's nearly enough to make me homesick."

Mariki beamed in delight. "Then it came out as it should have. I have a whole tray of them in the kitchen, Prince Christian. Feel free to help yourself anytime."

Christian chuckled and remarked, "One is always enough for me at a time. They're quite rich. I think you'd be wiser to give some away to your family and perhaps the rest of the kitchen staff." He hesitated, then said gently, "But please save one for Leslie."

Mariki nodded. "That I will, Prince Christian. Enjoy. Mr. Roarke, would you like one?" Roarke declined, so she arose and cleared the dinner dishes while Christian silently savored another bite of the pastry. Roarke watched for a moment, but Christian's distraction had ended and his expression showed that he was growing pensive again.

"When you are ready, Christian, you may do as you will," he said, "as long as you don't leave the property, of course. I have a few small things to take care of, and then I will be back for the evening. Leslie is at the luau and told me she doesn't plan to return until it has ended, so I don't think you should wait up for her." Christian glanced at him, gave a one-shouldered shrug and took another bite. Roarke arose, briefly laid a hand on that same shoulder and departed quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- December 23, 2001

The house was dark when Leslie finally entered well after midnight; she was too tired and sleepy to bother with any lights, and she could have found her way around the house blindfolded in any event. Quietly she climbed the stairs, hoping to just fall into bed and try to escape into sleep, and rounded the corner into her old room only to discover that Christian lay in the bed, sleeping a little fitfully.

Leslie stopped cold and stared at him for a long startled moment. After their blowup that morning, she'd honestly expected him to sleep on the TV-room futon, and was very surprised to find him in here. A tiny trickle of relief snaked through her as well, and she tried to ignore it, turning away and changing in the dark. She brushed her teeth, staring at her reflection in the mirror by the glow of the seashell nightlight there, battling a whole raft of emotions all at once. It had grown increasingly harder for her to keep them at bay throughout the day, and now in the dead of night, they were threatening to overwhelm her altogether. She finished brushing, rinsed and retreated to the bedroom, focusing on mundane rituals in the attempt to maintain control.

Cautiously she got into bed, trying to jostle the mattress as little as possible to avoid awakening Christian, and gradually relaxed, lying on her back and staring at the canopy over their heads. Beside her she was hyper-aware of Christian's warmth, the sound of his breathing, the rustling of his fingers against the sheets whenever he twitched in his sleep. Yearning for him threatened to swamp her and she closed her eyes, trying to fight it: she refused to wake him. _Dammit, one of us has to sleep at least._ But in the end she too drifted off.

Two hours later Christian woke for no apparent reason and knew immediately that Leslie had returned. _So she didn't go to a separate bed when she found me here after all. I hope that's a good sign._ He opened his eyes and smiled wistfully at her; she lay asleep, facing him, and the temptation to touch her was too much for him to resist, especially since she was clearly in the middle of some dream. Tentatively he stroked her hair, then brushed two fingertips over her cheek…and at that point she stirred and turned over, facing away from him now, without waking up. Christian stared as she settled down again, feeling rejected. He knew it was silly for him to react like that; after all, she was asleep and hadn't knowingly turned away from him. But it seemed like some sort of message to him. Discouraged, he himself rolled over and stared with stinging eyes at the wall, fiercely willing himself not to cry till his weary brain finally sent him back into slumber.

The next time he woke, the room was light; he must have shifted again in his sleep, since he now faced her side of the bed again. Leslie was gone, and he whispered a resigned curse, scrubbing his hand over his face. Why was she avoiding him like this?

About half an hour later, showered, shaved and dressed, he ventured downstairs and out onto the porch; Mariki was just putting out serving dishes, and Roarke and Leslie were already at the table. Uncertainty dogged his steps as he crossed the veranda. "I hope you won't mind if I join you," he said softly, mostly to Leslie.

"By all means, sit down, Christian," Roarke invited. Christian murmured thanks and moved toward his chair, itching so badly to touch Leslie that he actually put out a hand to stroke her hair before reconsidering and pulling it back. She seemed unaware of him; she sat with her head down and didn't look up when he took his chair.

For her part, Leslie couldn't meet Christian's gaze. _I'm pushing him away,_ she thought bleakly. _I know I am, but I can't seem to find a way to bridge the gap. What if we get into another argument, anyway? Does he believe me now, or is it only because Father finally made him understand? What if it happens again? And what's happened to me that I suddenly can't cry anymore? _ She hadn't cried at all since this whole thing had started, as if the old defenses she'd used in her early childhood had come back to the fore. On some level Leslie was aware that the longer she held back her emotions, the worse effect they would have on her; and she also knew that the longer she waited to reach out to Christian, the wider the gulf between them would grow. But too much time had passed already and she was no longer certain of either herself or him.

Roarke, looking on, reflected that each of them still harbored a wellspring of anger—for different reasons, to be sure. Leslie was still feeling betrayed that it had taken Roarke to make Christian fully understand the gravity of his situation; and Christian's rage at the count remained largely unvented, waiting for some outlet. Though the atmosphere was stilted and extremely uncomfortable, Roarke held his silence. Christian and Leslie were going to have to work this out on their own.

"You'd better eat, Miss Leslie," Mariki took up her usual refrain. "I don't know what's gotten into you now, but between you and Prince Christian, you eat less than Mr. Roarke does all by himself. Are you just going to sit there and stare at your plates? Both of you?"

Her emphasis on the last sentence made both Christian and Leslie look up in surprise, and their gazes collided and held for an electric five seconds. Then her nervous eyes skipped away and she compressed her lips, hanging her head again. "Just put anything on my plate, Mariki," she mumbled spiritlessly.

Christian slumped back in his chair and sighed in defeat. "Same here."

Very surprised, Mariki stared at Leslie, then Christian, then Leslie again, before seizing the opportunity to take advantage of their apparent _carte blanche_ and loading their plates till they both turned to stare at her. "If I come back out here and those plates have even a crumb left on either one of them," Mariki warned, "there will be consequences. Dire consequences. Catastrophic consequences."

"Thank you, Mariki," Roarke said pointedly, and Mariki subsided with a shrug and left them. Christian and Leslie stared at their plates; then Christian shrugged as well and dug in. Leslie sighed gently and slowly started to eat too. From time to time Roarke looked up at them, but it wasn't long before it was clear to him that neither was going to move toward reconciliation. He continued to hold his own counsel, though.

Almost an hour passed before Mariki returned; though Christian and even Leslie had eaten steadily, they hadn't yet finished, and she predictably pounced. "What does it take to get you two to eat?" she began, working towards her usual bluster.

Without warning Leslie snapped. "Dammit, Mariki, _shut up!"_ she cracked out and shoved her chair back, springing out of it and stalking across the veranda with her shoes thudding loudly on the floorboards. Mariki's mouth hung open; Christian and Roarke both looked up in startled shock, and all three gaped after her.

Seething now, Leslie stomped down the steps and right into the middle of a small group of natives, some of Roarke's employees from the hotel, who were having a loud and urgent argument about something. When they saw Leslie heading for them, they instantly dragged her into the middle of it, all of them talking at once. Forced to resume her fragile mask of calm, Leslie determinedly shoved back her turmoil and tried to sort out what was going on.

At the table, Roarke shook his head and said, "Mariki, I realize you worry, especially about Leslie, but just once I must ask you to refrain from nagging her about her eating habits. And for the sake of peace, you might extend Christian the same courtesy."

"Is there something happening here that no one's told me about?" Mariki asked.

"Yes, there is," Roarke said bluntly, without elaborating. Mariki waited, but the silence stretched and she finally realized he wasn't going to say any more. Grumbling to herself in Hawaiian, she returned to the kitchen.

Christian hadn't moved all the while; only his eyes had followed his wife as she retreated, as she headed down the lane, and now as she stood in the middle of a small knot of gabbling natives. As if she felt his intense scrutiny, she turned to cast a glance back onto the porch, and once more was arrested in his stare. Neither moved, till a native grabbed Leslie's arm and made a demand, yanking her attention back to the problem at hand. Only then did Christian sag and let his head droop again. "Excuse me, Mr. Roarke," he said softly and got up without waiting for an acknowledgment, going back into the house. Roarke watched him for a few steps, then shook his head again and finished his meal before going in after his son-in-law. By then Leslie had managed to resolve whatever problem the natives had had, and the lane was quiet and deserted.

In the study he saw Christian at the computer, scrolling through e-mail messages in his private account. "Christian," he said, "when you are ready, you might be of some assistance to me in the matter of Mephistopheles and the count."

Christian glanced at him and nodded. "One moment, Mr. Roarke," he requested, his voice still soft and toneless, and Roarke smiled agreement and settled behind the desk while Christian finished answering a message and sent it off. Then he signed out and went to one of the chairs in front of the desk. "What can I help you with?"

"The contract," Roarke said without preamble. "How much do you know about it?"

"I know that it was drawn up behind my back, and that I knew nothing of it until my brother rudely filled me in just as I was falling in love with Leslie," said Christian, his eyes reflecting a startling pain for just one brief second at mention of his wife's name. "I know also that it was a deal, offering me in marriage to the count's daughter so that Arnulf and his daughters could be assured of a steady supply of the amakarna they needed to survive." He hesitated. "I learned somewhat more about it in June when Leslie and I were in Lilla Jordsö, but…" He shook his head. "It's of a private nature and I see no need to go into it unless it's called for in the course of fighting the count and Mephistopheles."

Roarke nodded, accepting this for the moment. "Have you ever seen it?"

"No," Christian said. "Not once has anyone ever shown it to me. The count himself found me in here yesterday and went so far as to tell me he was carrying a copy of it; when I demanded to see it, he refused. I suspect he was aware I would have torn it to shreds."

"Then it's as well he didn't let you look at it," Roarke remarked with a trace of humor that got a grim, mirthless huff from Christian. "That contract is the only thing that stands between you and damnation." He paused momentarily. "So you were not aware of the contract at all until July of 1996. Who signed on your behalf?"

"My father, I presume," Christian said. "Arnulf told us he was present when the contract was drawn up, and he said it's Father's signature."

"Of your name, or his own?" Roarke asked.

Christian hesitated, surprised. "I don't actually know," he realized. "That was never clarified. Arnulf didn't say, and I can't ask him now."

"Do you think either Prince Carl Johan or Princess Anna-Laura would know?" Roarke queried. Christian focused on him with wide eyes, and Roarke offered, "If you wish, to expedite this, you might call the castle directly from here." He indicated the phone.

For the first time that day Christian cracked a smile, wry though it was, and advised, "It's going to be a very expensive call, I'm afraid."

"Only monetarily," Roarke assured him, returning the smile. "Go ahead."

Christian's smile softened into one of gratitude before he pulled the phone over to him and made the call. He figured his best chance of help would be from Carl Johan, even if he hadn't actually witnessed the signing. As he listened to the connections going through and the double beeps that signified the ringing, he remembered Anna-Laura's words about having discussed it with their mother, and wondered what his sister knew.

"_Ah, hallå då, äldrebror, dehär är Christian som ringer, va' händer däromkringa?"_ he suddenly asked, his voice curiously more animated in his own tongue, Roarke thought. He sat back and watched while his son-in-law carried on a conversation in _jordiska_, asking question after question, grabbing a note pad early on and jotting down notes as he listened to Carl Johan's responses. The call lasted some twenty minutes, and when Christian finally wound up the conversation and bid his brother goodbye, he looked quite thoughtful.

"I suppose that call will seem quite long in exchange for what little I learned," he said apologetically, "but Carl Johan did manage to shed a little light on things, and he provided some useful information. He has some basic knowledge of law; he studied pre-law for a time before his interests shifted and he got a degree in landscape architecture. He doesn't know either whether the name my father signed was his or mine…but he gave me a nice piece of ammunition for the argument, and I think you'll be very interested in it." Roarke leaned forward and listened intently while Christian explained, translating his jotted notes in _jordiska_ as he did so, and after a little while they both began to smile, just a bit.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- December 23, 2001

Leslie's mood was much lower than her father's and husband's were at the moment. Just about the time they were talking things over, she found herself at the pool, which was lavishly decorated for Christmas, watching people coming and going, swimming, talking, enjoying drinks or just reading. Everything seemed to be going smoothly at the moment; it was a relief, after that morning's fracas in the lane involving four hotel employees. The gist of the whole thing seemed to have been a case of perceived favoritism, and Leslie had finally told them they'd better take their complaint down a level and present it to Jimmy Omamara. _Sort of like going directly to the Supreme Court over a fender-bender,_ she thought with a faint flash of humor. She eventually decided she might as well check at the casino, but before she'd made it out of the pool area, she encountered Maureen with Brianna, Myeko with Noelle and a stroller holding Dawn, and Lauren. It had been a little while since she'd seen Lauren at least, and for a few minutes her spirits lifted somewhat as they greeted one another and Brianna and Noelle scuttled off to take a swim. Lauren and Leslie both admired four-month-old Dawn, who was a lively, animated baby with a huge smile for everyone she saw, and then the four friends located an empty table and took seats.

"Geez," Lauren was saying as they sat down, "that kid's a chunker, Myeko. I guess you were right about her eating every hour on the hour."

Myeko grinned. "She's finally calmed down some. Nick says she decided to go on a diet." They all laughed. "Yeah, Dawn was a surprise, but you know what? Noelle's a terrific help with her, because she was so thrilled to get a sister—especially with Toki and his wife turning out a houseful of boys. And when I stopped and thought about it, I felt wonderful at the idea of having Nick's child. I can't tell you how crazy I am about him, you guys. He's so patient with all the kids, and he thinks Noelle's gonna grow up to be a vet…just tickles him pink. She gets such a kick out of helping with the animals he treats."

"You can thank Leslie for that," said Lauren with a grin. "Come to think of it, I probably owe her some thanks too."

"I didn't introduce you to Brian," Leslie said in surprise.

"No, but you and Mr. Roarke agreed to give away a trip here on a game show, which his sister won, and she invited him to come, and if it weren't for all that, we never would've met. Besides, I returned the favor by introducing you to Christian…sort of." Lauren smirked playfully, and Maureen and Myeko both laughed; but their cheer died when Leslie went silent. "Hey…what's wrong?"

For a day and a half Leslie's emotions had been riding much too close to the surface, like lava bubbling beneath a fragile crust, and Lauren's question gouged the chink in the armor. It took no more than their sympathetic, curious looks to make Leslie drop her face in her hands and burst into tears. Her friends exclaimed in startled alarm and tried to comfort her, repeatedly urging her to talk about it. She just shook her head and went on crying.

Finally Maureen said, "Leslie, is there something else going on? I mean…Grady mentioned he got a call from Mr. Roarke yesterday morning, asking if he might be able to look at what turned out to be the contract that forced Christian's marriage to his second wife. Grady said that since he thinks of Christian as his friend, he couldn't maintain impartiality. He told me about it later on, and he wondered what was up. It just occurred to me to ask about it. Is there some fantasy in progress that you can't talk about?"

"You should talk about it, even if it does involve a fantasy," Lauren said, frowning. "I've never seen you that upset. You know we won't tell anyone—we've known you too long to go around blabbing. Come on, Leslie, before you cry enough tears to fill that pool, give over. Is somebody suggesting yours and Christian's marriage isn't legal?"

Leslie looked up finally and shook her head. "Not quite, but you aren't too far from the truth. Please, guys, you can't tell anyone, especially considering who's here. But I have to talk about it. It's killing me." They waited while she struggled to compose herself; then she looked up and said in a low voice, "It's all turned into such a mess. The count who's Marina's father is here on the island, claiming Christian committed breach of contract by annulling his marriage to Marina, but he knows that both Marina's marriage and Christian's and mine are valid and uncontestable. But he must have some screws loose, because he's determined to get some kind of revenge on Christian, and he decided to do that by selling Christian's soul to the devil. Mephistopheles is on the island too, which means there's going to be another confrontation."

Lauren, Maureen and Myeko looked at one another; while they believed her—they'd known her too long to be skeptical of anything she told them about the fantasy-granting business—they were a little puzzled. "No wonder you look so tense," Myeko said.

"That's only part of it," Leslie said, and her eyes welled up again. "When Father told me, I panicked like I've never done before in my life, and took off to Amberville and pulled Christian out of his office right in front of Anton and Julianne. I was so terrified Mephistopheles might get to Christian before I could get him to safety, I couldn't think beyond making him come back to the main house with me. But Christian didn't understand, and he got upset with me. Then when we got inside, Mephistopheles was there, and Christian just didn't believe what he was seeing. Mephistopheles had to prove who he really was. Even then Christian didn't get it. I kept trying to tell him Mephistopheles was after him, and even when he saw him…" She swallowed hard and tried to slow the torrent of words. "Only when Father explained things to him did he finally realize exactly how much danger he's really in. I warned him the day after we were married. I told him never to even joke about selling his soul for any reason. I thought he believed me. I thought he took me seriously."

"And he didn't, is that it?" asked Lauren softly.

Leslie shook her head. "I was so frustrated with him that I wound up screaming at him for it. And then I ran out…I just…" She gasped loudly and cried, "He was so angry with me, and I got so mad at him, and…"

"Oh no," Maureen said. "You two fought?"

"Holy cow," Myeko said, wincing. "Not you two…the lovebirds of the century." That made Leslie break down into sobs, and Lauren and Myeko both rubbed her shoulders, trying to calm her a little. "Leslie, come on, you'll make up. Couples fight all the time. Nick and I kept nagging each other over how much time each of us spent feeding Dawn and how much time we weren't devoting to Alexander and Noelle, right up till earlier this month when Dawn finally learned to let more than one TV show pass between meals. We really hollered at each other a few times, Leslie. And look, we're still completely blissed out together."

"I make you a bet Christian's just as miserable as you are," Lauren said gently. "When Brian and I fight, we're always in such funks till we make up."

Leslie shook her head. "I can't get past it," she said helplessly, tears streaming down her face. Her friends looked at each other.

"Can't get past what?" Maureen asked.

"He didn't trust me," Leslie said starkly, her eyes filled with a pain and betrayal that made her friends nervous. "I thought he took me seriously when I told him about Mephistopheles. It looked like he did. Then yesterday he treated me like someone just escaped from a funny farm, and even after he realized it really was Mephistopheles, he still thought I was nuts. I realized then that the only way he'd believe it was if Father told him, and that's when I just lost it." She closed her eyes and let the tears fall. "Do you know how much it hurt me to realize that? Of all the people in the world, I thought he trusted me…"

Lauren and Myeko looked at each other uneasily; Maureen cleared her throat and leaned forward. Among all Leslie's friends, she was the most grounded, the voice of calm and reason, the one who seemed to see things more clearly than any of the others. "Leslie," she said, "how long have you lived on this island?"

"Since I was almost fourteen," said Leslie, looking at her blankly.

"And how long has Christian lived here?" Maureen went on.

"Almost a year…I know where you're going with this," Leslie said tiredly. "Father told me the same thing yesterday. Maureen, that's not the problem. He should have trusted me!"

Maureen sighed patiently. "Leslie, think about what you were telling him. Fantasy Island or not, it's kind of hard to swallow the idea that Mephistopheles can pop up out of nowhere and call you on it if you make a wisecrack about selling your soul. Try to think about it from Christian's point of view. Anybody would've been skeptical. I know I sure would've been, and I was born here. Y'know, a few years ago Grady and I were in southern California with Brianna, doing the usual tourist stuff, and people were always surprised to hear we were from Fantasy Island. We were staying in Anaheim, in a hotel near Disneyland, and actually met up with someone who'd had a fantasy granted years before. When he heard where we were from, he told us a little about it, and he mentioned that we were the first people he'd given any details about it to since he'd made the trip. Turned out his fantasy had something to do with some Russian folk tale, and he knew nobody would've believed it if he'd told them about it."

"What's your point?" Leslie asked when Maureen paused for a breath.

"My point is, people know about this island, and about Mr. Roarke, and they know what he does—but they don't really understand everything that's involved, or what can happen here. Most folks just go on with their everyday lives without ever meeting up with all the crazy beings and events that are practically second nature to you and Mr. Roarke. That even applies to people here. Leslie, don't you realize you're the only one of our group who's ever _seen_ Mephistopheles, or Athena, or that weird Finnish god that killed Teppo, or a ghost? I'm not saying we don't believe you when you tell us about this stuff, but it's hard for us to visualize, and that's one of the reasons we're always so fascinated by your war stories from your job—because it's all so removed from everyday life. You, on the other hand—you're so immersed in it, you hardly even think about it anymore."

Lauren nodded. "That's true," she said, "and you know, Leslie, even though Christian's married to you now, he still isn't as close to it as you are. He doesn't see any of this stuff any more often than we do. Don't you think you're expecting too much from him?"

Startled out of her tears, Leslie stared at them both, slowly falling back in her chair and absorbing Maureen's observations and Lauren's postscript. Her gaze turned inward; her friends waited patiently, watching her face change as it slowly sank in. When she looked up, she was pale. "You're right," she whispered. "Father tried to tell me that yesterday, but I felt so betrayed by Christian's reaction, I wasn't ready to hear it."

Myeko gave her a game little grin. "I bet he trusts the heck out of you now, Leslie."

Maureen and Lauren both laughed, and even Leslie had to smile a little. "So what're you gonna do now?" Lauren asked.

Leslie sighed, a heavy, shuddering sigh, and propped her elbows on the table again, resting her head in her hands. "I can't read Christian's feelings," she admitted. "I don't know what he's thinking. I've learned he has a real capacity to brood, and when he does that he'll just go dead silent. I have to coax him to tell me anything then. I learned that when Arnulf died this summer and Christian was trying to come to terms with his and Arnulf's history. He'll sit and glare, but I can never tell what's really going through his mind."

"So ask him," said Myeko with a shrug. "Nick gives me the most murderous looks on earth when I ask him, but he tells me anyway."

"We have to prepare to face Mephistopheles tonight," Leslie said and shuddered in her chair enough to shake the table. "I can tell you right now, I'm terrified. That count…I know enough to know he and Christian hate each other. He'll do everything he possibly can to see to it that Mephistopheles walks off with Christian's soul. He supposedly has that contract with him. We don't even know how valid it is." She looked up at her friends, her eyes swimming again, her chin trembling. "And you know something," she whispered, tears overflowing, "I just can't live without Christian. I can't. It'd kill me."

"So you go in with Mr. Roarke, you fight the devil and Count Crazy, and you save Christian's life," said Lauren, shrugging. "Seems pretty cut-and-dried to me, Leslie. Or are you still so mad at Christian that you're considering not going?"

"What if the count's right?" Leslie cried and began to sob again. "What if…" Her voice dissolved into her misery and she finally rested her head on her folded arms, weeping brokenheartedly. Lauren and Myeko rubbed her shoulders again, feeling useless, and Maureen sat gnawing on her knuckle, a worried gleam in her green eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- December 23, 2001

Roarke and Christian had both lunch and supper alone, and by the end of the second meal Roarke had grown very concerned at Leslie's absence. Christian seemed resigned; his reticence had increased as the day wore through, and he was close to shutting out everyone and everything around him. He had eaten mechanically and not spoken at all nearly all afternoon, and now he sat in one of the chairs in front of Roarke's desk, staring at the floor, silent and unresponsive.

Roarke, leaving Christian to himself, was scheduling fantasies through the first quarter of the coming year when the door opened and Leslie came in, slowly, with her head hanging. She shuffled spiritlessly into the foyer, where Roarke noticed her finally and looked up. Christian seemed oblivious. Leslie caught her father's movement and lifted her head, and they looked at each other for some ten seconds before his expression grew coolly quizzical. "Have you something to say?" he asked.

She nodded and stepped down into the study, stopping just behind Christian's chair. "I…I've been thinking. I don't know what's going to happen tonight…but I made a decision about it." Leslie closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, so that she missed Christian turn to look up at her with blank eyes. "When I did, I realized there wasn't any other choice."

"And what have you decided?" Roarke prompted gently, taking in her pale face and the huge, frightened blue eyes that opened once more at his question.

Leslie's gaze was steady, though she trembled just perceptibly. "If the worst happens, and Mephistopheles takes Christian's soul," she said quietly, "then I'm going with him."

Roarke nodded in complete understanding, his dark eyes warming. Christian began to come back to life; his eyes went wide and his mouth opened slightly with wonder and hope, and slowly he stood up, staring at her. "You'd do that for me?" he whispered, his voice a little rusty from several hours' disuse.

Curiously, she couldn't look at him. She nodded a couple of times, her movements stiff and a little jerky. Roarke could see what Christian couldn't: Leslie was utterly petrified of the upcoming confrontation, in a way that she hadn't been the previous times they had battled Mephistopheles. Now that he got a good look at her, he could see that her eyes were somewhat red from what must have been a bout of tears; her emotions were now back under all the control she could muster up. Only her eyes betrayed her, glittering as they did with her fear and her love. He knew it was taking everything in her to keep calm for what lay ahead of them, and she was devoting all her attention and concentration to that.

Christian reached up with a shaking hand, hesitantly laying the backs of two fingers against Leslie's cheek and stroking, just a little, back and forth. "Leslie, I only want to say…"

She closed her eyes again and went rigid under his touch; Roarke correctly read it as a fresh and desperate attempt to maintain control, while Christian saw it as another rejection and instantly pulled his hand away. Before he could misread her any further, Roarke stood up and closed his date book. "Let it be until later, Christian," he said gently. "It's time for us to meet the count and Mephistopheles." He came around the desk to lead the way out; and Christian turned away to follow. It was then that Leslie grasped his hand and interlaced their fingers, clinging so tightly it was almost painful. He cast her one startled glance, saw her hanging her head, and then tightened his own grip on her hand, clutching desperately at that one tiny bit of hope.

None of them spoke at all, all the way to the confrontation. Leslie seemed to have some idea of where they were going, and pulled out in front of Christian when the path they trod forced them to walk single-file. But she never let go of his hand; in fact, when he tried once to pull free, she increased her grip, sending a surprising thread of relief through him. She glanced back, and he smiled gratefully at her, evoking a fleeting twitch of the corner of her mouth in response and a slight warming in her frightened eyes. It was enough for him, and he squeezed her hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

At last Roarke, Leslie and Christian emerged into a dark clearing, where the ground was hidden by a swirling mist and there seemed to be no trace of sky overhead—only a uniform blackness untouched by moon or stars. Christian peered uneasily up for a moment, then looked around in time to recognize the figure of the count, clad in his cape again, and the glowing red mist surrounding Mephistopheles as the latter stepped into view from between two trees. "Ah, Roarke, you're just on time…and with your daughter and son-in-law too. A real family occasion, wouldn't you say?" Roarke studied him with disapproval, and Mephistopheles shrugged. "Just trying to lighten things up a bit. You all look so frightfully gloomy. It's really depressing."

The count spoke impatiently. "What is this, comedy night at the local theater? We have business to conduct, for pity's sake, so let's get on with it."

Mephistopheles huffed. "Oh, LiSciola, you've become so tiresome. All right, all right, you do have a point…our time here is limited. Now, Roarke, I assume you've explained in full to your daughter and son-in-law our reasons for meeting here."

"They are well aware of them, yes," Roarke said, "and since you are quite the stickler for detail and the letter of the law—and, if my memory does not fail me, the count as well—it would seem expedient to lay the ground rules for this confrontation. First and most importantly, whatever the outcome here, there is to be no further discussion of or dispute over this contract. I might inform you, Count LiSciola, that you are already on unstable legal ground here as it is. The contract was drawn up in Lilla Jordsö, presumably under the laws of that country, and that you are asserting its validity here rather than there tells me already that you are not convinced the outcome will be in your favor. However, I can see that you refuse to leave it alone, so we will work toward a resolution…"

"He thinks he's certain to win," Mephistopheles broke in, "but in the event he does not, Roarke, I suppose you are going to insist on no reprisals."

"But of course," said Roarke with mild surprise.

They went on laying the groundwork, and Christian watched with a vaguely nauseating mixture of trepidation, doubt and incredulity. Then Leslie, silent and blank-faced till this moment, turned to him and he immediately devoted all his attention to her. She bore a solemn, urgent expression that added a little fear to the mix. "Whatever you do, Christian," Leslie said quietly, "don't say anything, unless someone asks you a direct question. Don't call attention to yourself, just stand here with me and wait. And most of all, don't let the count goad you, no matter how hard he tries or what he says to you. Any distractions could be harmful…the last thing we want is to ruin Father's defense."

"I understand," Christian said softly, watching her. She nodded and returned her attention to the continuing discussion before them, and he sighed just a little and followed her lead. It was going to be an enormous challenge for him to do as Leslie asked: he was still scared, unnerved by Leslie's deadly-serious aura, and full of rage at the count. He felt like a pressure cooker—the wrong word, the wrong look, and he'd blow. His only reassurance was her strong, stubborn grip on his hand. It was as if hope were flowing into him from that hand, keeping him anchored and in control.

"All right, then," said Mephistopheles, "I suppose we're ready, if you're through with your stipulations, Roarke. You're fortunate that I'm so enamored of detail, no matter how petty. LiSciola, all you've done is bray about breach of contract. Now, kindly explain to me and Roarke exactly what damned contract you're trying so hard to defend."

The count drew himself up straight again, a nervous habit he seemed to have, and cleared his throat, reaching into his cape and withdrawing a piece of parchment folded in thirds. "This is the contract in question," he said, brandishing it at them. "I am an amakarna grower by trade and have managed to maintain a nice little business. My late daughter Paola would likely have inherited had she lived; she had a talent for growing the spice, and had a little side business of her own that brought in a very nice income. As it happens, I've been using the accumulated proceeds lately to pay off my son-in-law's never-ending debts, but that's another story.

"For approximately one hundred thirty years we've done business with the royal family of Lilla Jordsö, whose monarchs have adopted the spice as their own. My own father originally set up an account with King Carl IV, who discovered amakarna and its properties. When Carl's first son died in infancy and he and his queen had a second son, I advised him that amakarna would help to bolster and maintain the infant's well-being. It did at that, and the child grew up to become King Erik XIII. He learned the story from his parents, and was so grateful to my father that he agreed to long-term contracts on an indefinite basis. Thus, we drew up twenty-year contracts each time renewal came due. The arrangement continued when Erik passed on in 1934 and his lone son, Lukas VI, took the throne."

Christian shifted uneasily where he stood. Hearing this man he so despised casually discussing his most immediate ancestors made him want to smash the man flat; but Leslie's words still reverberated in his head, and he set his jaw, stilled himself and slowly rubbed his thumb back and forth across Leslie's hand.

"It was an excellent arrangement…but then my father died of the damned bone-eating disease in 1980. By that time Lukas VI had died, and Arnulf I ascended to the throne in 1962. So it was he with whom I found myself dealing, and I decided to add a little something to the mix. Why not connect our families? Surely there was some unwed member available…" Christian twitched and clenched his teeth; Count LiSciola blithely prattled on. "It would be an extra bond between us, and could open the way to friendship between the families. I brought my adored little daughter Marina to Lilla Jordsö early in 1981 when the contract was about to expire, so that Arnulf and I could negotiate new terms. The king was delighted at the chance to find a wife for one of his family. He had two grandsons of about the right age, and I had thought perhaps my little girl could be matched with one of them. But he offered his youngest son instead. Now I had seen the young man on television once or twice…he had recently been widowed, and I could see that he was attractive enough to complement my Marina. So I agreed. The marriage couldn't take place till Marina was grown anyhow. So we drew up this very contract—" again the count brandished the folded parchment— "signed it in good faith, and waited until my Marina reached her twenty-first birthday in July 1996. Two days beforehand, she and I traveled to Lilla Jordsö. By then Arnulf I had died and his son, Arnulf II, was king; I knew he would honor the contract, for he had been present at the signing…"

_July 13,_ Christian thought with a jolt of memory. _The very day I told Leslie for the first time that I loved her, this greedy old man was on his way to destroy my life._ The hand that clutched Leslie's clamped tighter; the other hand clenched into a fist.

The count continued: "…and he thoroughly approved. He said that his brother had never remarried even though his wife had been dead sixteen years, and it was past time he was wed. My Marina became twenty-one on July 15, and that day, she was married to the young prince by proxy. I was satisfied and returned home the following day.

"So you see, this contract was drawn up and executed in good faith. Now I find that it has been unceremoniously breached! This past January I was preparing to return to Lilla Jordsö for renegotiations with King Arnulf…and just before I was to leave, my little girl came home announcing that she had been freed from the king's brother and was back to marry a worthless stripling she claimed to have been in love with since the age of nine. Worse yet, the man to whom she should rightfully have been wed had disappeared to marry a woman he was supposedly in love with—Roarke's daughter! And what am I left with? Nothing…nothing, I tell you! The lucrative royal account is now in the hands of another; my child is wed to a useless weed of a boy, and her prince has slipped right through my fingers!"

Christian snarled low in his throat, and Leslie turned sharply and hissed, "Shhh!" He subsided with reluctance, breathing deeply. No one else seemed to have noticed.

"Breach of contract," mumbled Mephistopheles, considering the count's long narrative. "Roarke, do you have something to put up against his words?"

"Yes," Roarke said. "The count mentioned, for one thing, that the king seemed bent on offering his son, rather than one of his grandsons, in marriage. I am surprised that didn't evince more doubt in him than he claims it did."

Mephistopheles looked at Christian and asked, "Did your father discuss it with you, young man? Did he tell you you were contracted to the count's little girl?"

"No," Christian said grimly. "He never once consulted me."

"Hmm," Mephistopheles mused. "And why do you suppose that was so?"

"My father had just begun to show signs of Alzheimer's disease," Christian said in a tightly controlled voice. "Of course, in those days no one had ever heard of that. He was diagnosed with dementia in 1982, and then rediagnosed in 1991. It was a slow but steady progression, and it killed him in mid-December 1995. And he also…" He caught himself, then cleared his throat and closed his mouth.

Mephistopheles noticed. "There's more, isn't there, my dear prince? You'd better spit it out, because you're not in the best of positions, you know. Even I know that one can never pinpoint the exact onset of Alzheimer's disease, and if it was a year at least before the dementia diagnosis, you can't be certain that he was suffering from it when he signed the contract. What else might have prevented him from telling you?"

Christian swallowed and protested stubbornly, "We knew there was something wrong with him by the time the contract came up for renewal. He had been showing signs for most of two years already."

"That's not what I asked you," Mephistopheles said with a dangerous look at him. "Answer the question you were given."

Christian gave Roarke a desperate look, and Roarke nodded solemnly. Christian sighed, muttered a resigned _jordisk_ curse and said grudgingly, "My father also labored under the delusion that I was homosexual. My first marriage came about because of this misconception, and apparently he continued to believe it after I was widowed. I was recently told that it was the reason he offered me to Marina instead of one of my nephews."

"Oh," said Mephistopheles, intrigued. Count LiSciola laughed; Christian stiffened and blazed a glare across the clearing at him, taking one step forward.

"_Stand still, Christian Enstad,"_ Leslie ground out through her teeth, putting all the pressure she could call forth on his hand. She heard Christian's quick, sharp indrawn breath of surprised pain at her grip, but he obeyed with another startled glance at her. She had never once looked at him, and he shook his head and looked away.

"Count LiSciola, I would advise you to have a care," Roarke told him, silencing the man's amusement. "Don't be so quick to take delight in Christian's misfortune. Since no one told the young man that he was supposedly bound by that contract, he had all the right on earth to protest the situation."

Mephistopheles shook his head slowly. "LiSciola, I warned you that contract had better be airtight," he said ominously. "It's beginning not to look so good. Roarke, before you get the wrong idea here, I'm going to ask the prince some questions. I need to know the particulars from his side—purely for the sake of legality, you understand."


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § -- December 23, 2001

"Naturally," Roarke agreed with faint amusement, "but before you begin, I must insist on seeing the contract, in order to verify Christian's responses." He looked expectantly at Count LiSciola.

"I don't think you have to—" the count began.

"Give it to him, LiSciola," Mephistopheles barked. "Even if Roarke doesn't have the right to see it, by law, the prince does. So do it, and shut your mouth." Unhappily the count gave Roarke the contract, which he slowly unfolded and examined carefully. Mephistopheles turned to Christian and demanded, "First, what date were you born?"

"The twenty-fifth of June, 1958," Christian answered.

"Nineteen _fifty-eight?"_ Mephistopheles repeated, looking astonished. "You hardly look that old, young man."

Christian raised an eyebrow at him. "I hope you're not going to insist on my birth certificate," he said with an edge to his voice. Leslie shuddered at his side and closed her eyes; Roarke glanced at him in quiet warning.

But Mephistopheles only shrugged. "I suppose you should know your date of birth better than anyone else here…and of course, you know better than to lie to me," he remarked with a meaningful look. "All right then, and what date was that contract signed? Roarke?"

"The fourth day of January, 1981," said Roarke. He tilted the page enough to allow Christian and Leslie to see it; Christian reached out for it, and Roarke let him take it.

"So that means you were how old at the time, young man?" Mephistopheles asked.

Christian looked up and off into the distance, doing some quick mental calculating; then he replied, "I was twenty-two years, six months and eleven days old when this was signed." His eyes narrowed as they settled on the count. "More than old enough to make my own decisions. And moreover, in January 1981 I wasn't even in the country. I was in the middle of my mandatory six-month military service, on a ship within sight of the Faeroe Islands—approximately two hundred kilometers beyond Lilla Jordsö's borders." The entire time he spoke, his grip on Leslie's hand increased until it was debilitating and undoubtedly painful for her; but she stood silent and expressionless all the same and simply maintained her own grasp on him.

"Well, well, well," murmured Mephistopheles. "It looks very bad for you, LiSciola, I can tell you that right now. Not present at the signing, and of age at the time…very bad indeed." He looked deliberately at the count, who had gone pale. "It's beginning to sound to me as if you and the young man's father were trying to put one over on him."

"The contract was valid!" snapped the count insistently. "His father signed it!"

"Whose name is on the contract?" demanded Mephistopheles.

For the first time Christian looked at the page he held, scowling at the fine print in the body of the contract before his eyes skipped to the bottom of the page. His own name stared up at him from the first signature line. "It's my name," he said, "but it's not my signature. As I said, I wasn't in the country."

Mephistopheles leaned over to peer at him. "Just to protect my own interests," he said, "you'll understand if I insist that you sign your own name on something…"

Christian shrugged. "I don't object," he said tonelessly. Mephistopheles handed Roarke a small notepad and pen, which he seemed to have conjured up from thin air, and Roarke gave these to Christian. Leslie released his hand and he shook it out once or twice, then knelt long enough to write his full name on the notepad. Leslie watched him sign; his handwriting was quite legible, with a long narrow loop in the H of "Christian" and the B of "Tobias," and the final N, L and D of "Christian", "Carl" and "Enstad" carrying a long finishing line with a small downstroke at the end. The S in "Tobias" ended with a generous upswing. Most notably, out of lifelong habit, Christian preceded the whole thing with the abbreviation "HKH". He had given Leslie the contract to hold while he wrote; having seen his signature, she shifted her eyes to the one on the contract and shook her head slightly. As on the notepad, the signature was written out as _HKH Christian Carl Tobias Enstad,_ but the writing was indicative of a shaky hand and the I's in "Christian" and "Tobias" had not been dotted. The H in "Christian" had no loop, and the crossbars of the T's in the first and last names were little more than dashes, whereas Christian's crossbars were long and definitive. Christian gracefully arose beside her, handed the notepad and pen to Roarke and folded his arms over his chest.

"Let me see the contract, Leslie," Roarke requested, and she wordlessly gave it to him. He carefully compared the two signatures and shook his head, then passed them on to Mephistopheles. The count sidled over to take a look and turned even more pale.

"Definitely not the same signature," Mephistopheles remarked, directing a particular look at Count LiSciola that made him back off four or five steps. "Now, what's this H-K-H thing at the beginning here? It's on both of these."

Christian loosed a tiny huff of amusement at the reminder. "It stands for _Hans Kunglig Höghet_—in English, 'His Royal Highness'. I still have the habit."

"Is there some reason you shouldn't?" Mephistopheles asked.

"I relinquished my title when I married Leslie, and that took official effect over the summer," Christian explained. "I'm still readjusting to it."

"Oh, I see." Mephistopheles peered at the count even more oddly. "He's not even a prince any longer, LiSciola. The more I learn here, the more I wonder why it bothers you this much. You can't break up the prince's…that is, the former prince's current marriage, nor your own daughter's; and the man you've been so proud to call son-in-law isn't royal. I'm growing more and more unhappy with you…"

The count looked desperate. "I tell you, the contract was legal and binding!"

"Hardly, old man," Christian retorted frigidly. "It was nothing of the sort. Even if all the previous reasons we've cited weren't already enough to prove my case, this would be. Look underneath the signature of my name on that contract. What do you see there?"

"Nothing," Mephistopheles said, frowning. "Young man, don't beat around the bush. We don't have time for it."

"Of course there's nothing under the signature," Christian said as if he hadn't spoken. "When my father signed my name to that contract, he failed to add his own name with the quantifying phrase 'acting signatory'. By _jordisk_ law it's required to put that in if one person is signing for another. Because of that omission, the entire contract was null and void from the very date it was signed. It should never have been enforced at all." He watched Count LiSciola's face abruptly go from pale to alarmingly florid. "Perhaps that would be enough to completely erase all official record of my second marriage entirely, hm? I could have walked away at any time and there would have been nothing you could have done about it."

"Roarke, is he on the level?" Mephistopheles demanded. "That young man has quite the attitude about him, and before I decide to lose my patience with him, you'd better make sure he knows what he's talking about."

"He knows exactly what he's talking about," Roarke said quietly and extracted a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "This is a photocopy of the pertinent page from a law text of Christian's country, translated into English, which I obtained from an acquaintance." _Probably Grady,_ thought Leslie. _Good old Grady._ "Feel free to check it yourself."

Mephistopheles carefully read the entire page while Roarke, Christian, Leslie and the count waited. When he looked up at long last, he had a dangerous look about him that both Roarke and Leslie knew all too well. "LiSciola, you'll remember that I warned you that if that contract proved to be anything other than airtight, you'd regret it—because I'm going to take your soul rather than the prince's. I rarely go for third-party sales, and this has just reminded me of why. However, when I do, I always put a clause in the sale contract that specifies that the third party's soul is included in the deal, even if I don't get the soul that was originally offered. I'm of a mind to enforce that, LiSciola, simply because you wasted my time here. For the lack of one miserable detail, you are doomed."

Count LiSciola backed away from Mephistopheles, looking panicked. "Roarke, help me!" he cried frantically.

Roarke let out a very small sigh. "Mephistopheles, you must have known he would object to such a thing," he said. "Do you have the agreement with you?"

"I most certainly do," Mephistopheles said, offended. "Did you really think I'd be that ill-prepared? Here, take a look. You can't do anything for him." He whipped out a sheet of paper and gave it to Roarke, who looked it over at some length and then handed it back with a regretful look at the count.

"He's correct, I'm afraid," Roarke said to the count. "I have no power to help you, and I can think of only one loophole, which may not be available to you."

Mephistopheles glared at him in outrage. "Damn you, Roarke, you and your endless loopholes! Do you never run out of ways to squirm out of my grasp?"

"I was never in your grasp, Mephistopheles, and well you know it," Roarke told him, amused. "My presence here was almost extraneous, since Christian himself did most of the work required to disprove the count's case against him. No, I think the only one who has anything to fear here is Count LiSciola."

"What's the loophole?" the count cried desperately.

Roarke eyed him, looking very dubious. "One that Mephistopheles appears to have forgotten, since it's been so long since he last dealt in a third-party sale. The third party may be rescued from damnation if the owner of the soul that was originally offered for sale grants forgiveness. In this case, that means that if you are to avoid going to hell, you will have to depend on Christian to arrange it."

Everyone went completely still, and all eyes focused on Christian. Looking stunned, Christian let his hands fall to his sides, gawking at the count in disbelief. His mouth fell open, but nothing came out. For his part, the count somehow managed to look annoyed and discouraged simultaneously. "Well, that annihilates my chances entirely," he said sourly. "I know how much the young prince loathes me…almost as much as I do him. It's galling to have to depend on him for my salvation, and yet here I am."

"Not 'almost as much'," Christian said. "More."

Mephistopheles grinned. "Well then, is there really any question about it? Go ahead, young man, make it official. You see, now that Roarke has reminded me of that accursed loophole, I have to admit he's right. Whichever way you decide, you need only say it in so many words, and I will have to abide by it."

Christian hesitated; his expression gave away the fact that he was very sorely tempted to take the easy way out, to make irrevocably certain that this man would never be able to disrupt his life again. He took in their expressions. The count still looked upset and resigned all at once; Mephistopheles looked hopeful. Christian turned to Leslie, who only shrugged; it was plain that she didn't care what he did. When he looked at Roarke, he encountered no expression at all. Christian hung there, indecisive, and in the expectant silence, a doleful bell began to strike. Automatically everyone looked up as if the thing were about to materialize over their heads.

"You're out of time, Christian," Roarke said quietly.

Christian blew out his breath. Something in his father-in-law's demeanor told him that he, at least, would disapprove mightily if Christian gave in to temptation. And when he got right down to it anyway, he found that he just couldn't do it. Disgusted with himself, he shook his head. "I'm probably going to regret this," he muttered, "but all right, you shallow, bitter old goat, I'll forgive you…on one condition."

"Anything," wailed Count LiSciola. "Just hurry."

The bell had tolled six times. "Don't ever try to meddle in my life again," Christian warned him. "Don't even contact me, or anyone I know. If you ever do, I'll retract that forgiveness, which for all I know will mean that Mephistopheles will immediately gain access to your soul and lay prompt claim. Do you promise to abide by that?"

"Yes," the count howled, nearly drowning out the tenth chime.

"Then I forgive you," Christian said, with admittedly ill grace.

The bell tolled the final time and Mephistopheles growled low. "Roarke, I don't know where you get these people. You've robbed me of your own and who knows how many other souls; your daughter snatched you out of my clutches once; and now your son-in-law has denied me yet another soul. You really do live a charmed life, don't you? Just you wait, one day that phenomenal luck will run out, and you'll be mine."

"It's not luck," said Roarke. "It's just very careful planning. I believe our business here is completed."

"Seems so," Mephistopheles muttered grouchily. He happened to notice LiSciola standing some few yards away, clutching his chest as if about to have a heart attack, and rolled his eyes. "LiSciola, if you don't make yourself scarce this moment, the prince's amnesty will go ignored and I'll take you anyway. I find the sight of you provoking in the extreme."

The count gave him one terrified look and took to his heels; Mephistopheles shot Roarke a disgruntled look and simply walked away from them, off into some sinister red glow in the near distance. "We'll meet again, Roarke, you can count on it," were his parting words. Then there was absolute silence.

Roarke took in Christian's uncertain look, Leslie's visibly deteriorating control, and smiled at them. "Relax, you two," he said gently. "It's all over."

Christian looked at Leslie, and she looked at him, and then they threw themselves at each other, hugging hard and desperately. The moment she touched him, Leslie exploded into body-racking sobs, all her pent-up terror and loneliness and need having burst the dam at long last. Her high-pitched wails carried into the trees. It was more than Christian could bear, and he too broke down, crying as he hadn't done even in the wake of Arnulf's death. "Please, my darling," he begged helplessly through his own tears, "don't cry so…"

"Christian," she cried, keening, over and over again. They clung as if to never let go, their emotions having completely taken over. Roarke stood nearby and watched in silence, his dark eyes misty with empathy, waiting for the storm to pass.

It took them almost ten minutes to finally fall quiet. They stood there trembling badly, their reserves just about exhausted, still clinging; Christian clutched her to him, cradling her head with his face half buried in her hair. Leslie stood shivering against him, her eyes closed and her fists clenched around handfuls of his shirt, breathing hard. Roarke moved then, coming around to where they could both see him when he spoke. "Christian, Leslie? It's time for us to return home."

Christian lifted his head just enough to register Roarke's presence, nodding wordlessly. Leslie's assent was a whispered, barely audible "Okay, Father…" But neither of them moved just yet, as though afraid to let go of each other. Roarke noted this, saw Leslie's violent shivering and the tremors in Christian, and in a deliberate motion laid one hand on Christian's shoulder and the other on Leslie's. He let them remain for perhaps five seconds or so, then stepped back; their trembling was now gone.

"I think you can make it back," he said and smiled at them again.

Slowly Leslie and Christian drew back enough to look at each other with shy hope in their eyes; they both smiled tentatively at the same moment, and Leslie's eyes brimmed with tears again. When one fell, Christian kissed it away and then kissed her forehead before letting her go with great reluctance. Leslie took his hand again, and they followed Roarke away down the trail.


	8. Chapter 8

§ § § -- December 23, 2001

In the main house, Roarke regarded them, standing there hand in hand and looking as if they might just fall asleep on their feet right there. "You'd both better go on to bed," he said gently. "You have just endured a singularly grueling weekend, and the flood of emotion has exhausted you both to dangerous levels. I'll close up the house for the night—you two just go and get some sleep."

"Good night, Father," Leslie said, her voice weak and slightly shaky. Christian could only nod once or twice. Roarke smiled and gestured at the stairs, and watched them go up, still clinging to each other's hands.

Christian closed the bedroom door behind them and turned to find Leslie staring at him with a hopeful look. "What is it, my Rose?" he asked softly, smiling at her. "Anything you wish, it's yours."

"You forgave the count," she said hesitantly, biting her lip. "Do you think…that you could maybe forgive me too?"

"My darling," he said, shaking his head a little, still smiling. "There's nothing to forgive. You were right—I should have listened to you."

"There _is_ something to forgive, my love," she insisted, reaching for his hands and wrapping hers around them. "I realized it this afternoon…I bumped into some of my friends at the pool, and they saw how upset I was, and they made me realize some things I should have seen on my own. I'm so used to every crazy thing that happens here, I've lost sight of other people's perception of it. I expected far too much from you, without remembering that you still need time to get used to all this." Leslie hung her head. "I never should have screamed at you like I did yesterday. I was so terrified that something was going to happen to you before I could get you back here, I lost my head. When Father had to convince you, I took it all wrong…thinking you should have believed me…"

"It's true," Christian murmured, slipping two fingers under her chin and lifting her head till her gaze met his. "I should have believed you, but I didn't. I'm so very sorry, my Leslie Rose. After you rushed out of here in a rage, your father told me point-blank that you had been his assistant more than long enough for your warnings to carry equal weight to his own. That statement drove the point home to me as nothing else could have done, and you can be certain I'll never forget."

Leslie swallowed thickly. "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. I'm sorry too, my love, more than you know. Please, my darling, will you forgive me?"

"I forgave you long ago," he said gently, resting his hand on her cheek and stroking with just his thumb. "I couldn't have done otherwise. I love you, Leslie, my Rose…I love you so very much. All weekend I wanted more than anything in the world just to touch you, to hold you. I touched you last night when you slept…until you turned to face the other way. I touched you in the study earlier this evening, and you went stiff and cold…"

He watched her eyes fill with tears. "It wasn't you, Christian, my darling," she said in a pleading voice. "Please believe me. I was so terrified that somehow that damned count was going to win, it was all I could do to keep my emotions under control. Oh, Christian, I wanted so badly for you to touch me, I really did. I just needed to hold myself together for that confrontation, and your touch…I almost fell apart when you touched me. All I wanted to do was throw myself into your arms and never come back out."

"Oh, Leslie, my darling," Christian whispered, eyes wide. "I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. I didn't know…I understood then that I truly can't live without you. When it seemed as if you were rejecting me, I didn't even want to live anymore."

"No," she cried softly and hugged him hard, suddenly frightened again. "I love you, Christian, I love you so much. Don't talk like that, please. Oh, I love you…"

He kissed the top of her head and held her securely, rocking her a bit, his heart slowly calming now that they had reconciled. "It's all right now, my Rose," he said, quietly reassuring. "It's all over and everything's right between us again. Do you know that the moment you grabbed my hand and held on as though we were glued together, that's when I began to feel hope again? It told me that you were going to stand by me, that even though you were so angry with me, you meant to honor our wedding vows. It gave me the strength I needed to make my defense to Mephistopheles." He drew back and smiled at her. "You were there for me when I needed you, and that meant so much to me. I can't ever thank you enough for that. When you need me, you can count on me, that much is certain." A light filled her eyes, and his smile broadened before he drove the fingers of both hands into her hair, lowered his head and kissed her deeply, trying to express all he felt for her. She instantly responded, with equal enthusiasm, and out of nowhere a wild need surged to life within both of them at the same moment. Neither knew anything for a good forty minutes after that, too lost in each other to think of anything else.

The clock showed several minutes past one in the morning when Christian reached across his wife and turned out the lamp, then settled back down beside her and wrapped a possessive arm around her. Leslie stirred and murmured, "We have to—"

"No, my darling, we don't," Christian said softly. "Right now we don't have to do anything. It can all wait for morning. I just want to hold you the way I didn't dare to do last night. Go to sleep, my Rose…we need to rest, and you know I worry about you."

Leslie was only too happy to give in. She relaxed in his embrace and cuddled against him, closing her eyes. "I love you, my darling Christian," she said drowsily.

"I love you too, my precious Leslie Rose. Never forget that." He dropped a last kiss on her forehead and closed his eyes; in a few minutes they were asleep.

§ § § -- December 24, 2001

About to go down for breakfast, Roarke stepped out of his own room and closed the door, then stopped at Leslie's, tapping gently. There was no response, so he eased the door open and checked on the young couple. They were still deeply asleep; Christian was curled protectively around Leslie, with an arm over her, and she lay with his warmth at her back, her hand wrapped around his and both tucked under her chin. Their faces were peaceful in slumber. Roarke smiled. He'd heard their soft voices behind the door last night as he'd come up to get some sleep, and had been very glad to know they were talking and setting things to rights. He couldn't remember ever before finding it so difficult to witness discord, and it had taken all he could summon up just to keep his peace and let Christian and Leslie find their own way back.

His smile got a trace of the imp about it and he narrowed his dark eyes slightly till the tiny alarm button on Leslie's bedside clock shifted to its "off" position, before retreating and silently pulling the door closed again. They had been through too much; they should sleep as long as possible. Once on the veranda, he saw Mariki just approaching the table and nodded in greeting. She stopped and watched him for a few steps, then asked, "What about Prince Christian and Miss Leslie?"

"They're still sleeping, and they are to be left alone as long as they wish," Roarke said. "They've just come through the most difficult experience of their lives together, and they need all the sleep they can get. I doubt they'll be down for this meal, so leave it at that."

"I suppose," Mariki said, sighing. "What is it about Miss Leslie especially that she stops eating when something bad happens?"

"That's how she is, Mariki," Roarke said, taking his usual chair. "In some people, as in Leslie, intense negative emotion destroys the appetite. There is no forcing them to eat in those situations. Leslie has complained on numerous occasions about what she perceives as your nagging. Between that and the ordeal she and Christian were enduring, it was little wonder she snapped at you as she did. Don't mention it to her. It will undoubtedly bother her and she'll apologize for it. But you must understand the strain she and Christian both were under…I noticed that you began to badger him about his eating habits as well." He gave her a look that made her turn bright red.

"I worry about them both, Mr. Roarke," Mariki said defensively. "After all, not eating doesn't solve anything, and it could weaken their defenses." She saw his expression change again and sighed. "All right, I'll stop. But those two are almost like my own children, you know that. Actually, Miss Leslie was often a good bit better-behaved than mine…" Roarke chuckled, and she put out dishes and returned to the kitchen.

Half an hour later Roarke finished, checked his watch and arose, just in time to meet the driver who came to take him to the plane dock. It being the final weekend before Christmas, Mephistopheles and Count LiSciola had been the only fantasizing guests they'd had, so that it was no hardship for Roarke to go alone to see to it that the count boarded the plane and kept his promise to Christian.

The count stood waiting, nodding at Roarke with an unusual subjection about him. "I thank you for your hospitality, Roarke," he said. "In consideration of my purpose for coming here, perhaps I should be amazed."

"It's my business," Roarke said simply. "What plans do you have upon your return to Grottaminarda, if I may ask?"

The count sighed and said with a shrug, "Nothing special, I shouldn't think. Merely more of the usual wondering if my child will ever truly be cared for by that young weed she married, and if he will ever find something he has talent for, so that he can make a respectable living and stop pleading with me to pay off some delinquent bill. It's eating up the money from Paola's end of the business."

"The illicit end that was the source of the drug black lightning, you mean?" Roarke asked, quietly but pointedly. "Forgive me, my dear count, but I am afraid I fail to see it as anything but poetic justice." The count gave him such a rueful look that he smiled in spite of himself. "Surely you have other accounts than that of the _jordiska_ royals."

"I do…it's merely that theirs was my largest account. It's my understanding that the youngster who holds it now is related to you, is he not?"

"The son of my late first cousin," Roarke said with a nod. "It has occurred to me, Count LiSciola, that you overreached yourself. Perhaps even Christian's brother had grown weary of your attempts at manipulation, or else he should not have so abruptly terminated the contract. That, I might add, was really no breach either. It was due for renewal in any case, was it not, this past January?"

The count stared at him. "It was," he allowed, "but I doubt strongly that the reason the king didn't bother to renew has anything to do with whether he still enjoyed controlling the young prince's life. He spoke with my representative in their capital at the time he was offered the new contract, and when I learned of the conversation, I contacted the king directly. He stated in no uncertain terms that your cousin's boy produced a spice of far superior quality to mine—and at a much more attractive price."

"That 'more attractive price' may not have been strictly monetary," Roarke said.

"Perhaps." The count shrugged and shook his head. "Whatever the reasons, it's clear I must make other arrangements, other plans. Here, Roarke." Unexpectedly he reached into his cape and withdrew the parchment, thrusting it at Roarke. "I want no further reminders of this incident. If you prefer, give it to the young prince and let him do as he will with it. If I keep it, I will never be able to put away the reminder of what should have been." He gave a faint bow and clacked his Italian-leather heels together. "Goodbye, Roarke, and prosperity and peace to you. Again, thank you." He didn't wait for a reply but strode rapidly for the dock, refusing the leis the native girls tried to give him.

Roarke watched him for a moment, eyed the paper in his hand, then let out a small huff of amusement and returned to the waiting car, slipping the parchment into an inner pocket of his suit jacket. He could just imagine Christian's reaction when he gave it to him, and it was enough to put a broad grin on his handsome features.

To his surprise, Christian and Leslie were at the breakfast table when the car stopped in front of the main house. They both greeted him cheerfully when he came to join them, and he smiled broadly. "Now that's what I much prefer to see…you two back in love where you belong," he said.

Christian chuckled and Leslie grinned, her cheeks going pink. "I'm sorry I wasn't up, Father," she said. "My alarm didn't go off for some reason."

"Of course not," Roarke said mischievously, "for I was that reason." He laughed at the startled look Leslie exchanged with Christian. "It was better that you both got as much sleep as you could. For that matter, I expected you to sleep longer than this."

"We were hungry," Christian said simply. "Especially Leslie…which has made Mariki the happiest woman on the entire island." They all laughed; Roarke sat back, then reached into his jacket, pulled out the parchment and handed it across the table to Christian.

"A parting gift," he said when Christian stared quizzically at it.

"That looks like the contract," Leslie said in surprise.

"It is," Roarke confirmed, watching Christian slowly unfold it and stare at it with a puzzled frown.

"Why would he give it to me?" Christian asked, completely at sea.

Roarke said, "He told me he wanted no reminders of what transpired this weekend, and suggested I give it to you to do with as you would. It seems to me that he couldn't bear the sight of it, with its crucial omissions to reinforce the point that his and your father's attempt to use you as a bargaining chip was invalid from the beginning."

"And there were enough of them, to be sure," Christian said through a heavy sigh before looking up with a sudden gleam in his eye. "For the count, the devil was quite literally in the details, wasn't it?"

Roarke stared at him; Leslie groaned aloud, "Oh, _Christian…!"_ Christian smirked.

"Maybe you two had better go home," Roarke remarked, at which Leslie instantly burst out laughing. Christian raised his eyebrows at her, visibly trying not to laugh himself, and looked at Roarke with a lost-puppy stare.

"Does that mean we can't come here for Christmas dinner?" he asked, setting off Roarke as well. Christian finally lost control and joined in.


	9. Chapter 9

§ § § -- December 25, 2001

It was a little past nine that night; it had been quite a long day, between exchanging presents with their friends, having a hearty Christmas dinner with Roarke and giving and receiving still more gifts, and having their own private Christmas-gift exchange a few short hours ago. Now Christian and Leslie sat on the sofa holding each other, her head on his shoulder, both gazing dreamily into the colorful tree lights that provided the only illumination in the room.

"This was the best Christmas of my life," Christian said softly, letting out a small contented sigh. "We spoke with everyone back in Lilla Jordsö, and had a wonderful holiday dinner, received so many beautiful and thoughtful gifts, had the pleasure of giving things to good friends…made some happy Christmas memories with your father…" He dipped his head and dropped a kiss atop Leslie's. "And most of all, being here with you, having you as my wife, spending my first Christmas with you."

She lifted her head and gave him a long, slow kiss that left him breathing a little fast when she pulled back. "I've had a lot of happy Christmas seasons here myself, but this one was complete because you were here. You know, I've never been so happy in all my life? I can't think of anything left to wish for. You were all I wanted last year, and this year I got that wish, and if you were the only present I got this year it would have been perfect."

Christian grinned. "Maybe next year I'll wrap myself in some expensive paper and lie under the tree so that you'll find me there on Christmas morning."

"Hmmm," Leslie murmured, intrigued. "You under the tree, wearing just some wrapping paper? I think you better be careful I don't hold you to that, my love." He raised an eyebrow, she snickered, and they started to laugh together, hugging each other. "Just out of curiosity, what'd you finally do with that stupid contract, anyway?"

"Oh, that," said Christian comfortably, relaxing again. "As a matter of fact, I had something in mind, but I wanted to wait until I could do this with just you. Why don't you wait for me on the patio, my Rose, and I'll be out to join you in just a moment."

Leslie stood on the smooth slate flagstones gazing into the sky when Christian came out of the house, with the parchment in one hand and a book of matches in the other. "I'm going to have a private ceremonial bonfire," he said at her surprised look. "Right back here." He led her out to a corner of the backyard where a birdbath stood just under a feeder that they had hung from a tree over the summer. "I thought, we really should change the water in this thing anyway, and emptied it out to do that, then realized it would be perfect for the purpose. So I didn't bother to refill it yet. It should have had enough time to dry out by now." He gave her the parchment. "If you'll do the honors, my darling, just unfold it and lay it in the bath there, and I'll put an end to it once and for all."

Leslie smiled and spread out the paper, then placed it into the birdbath and took a step back, clasping her hands behind her. "Did you have some solemn incantation in mind when you were thinking about this?" she teased him.

Christian laughed. _"Herregud,_ it wasn't worth that much effort," he said, making her laugh as well with agreement. "Now, let's see if I can do this." He pulled out a match and tried to strike it, without success. Leslie giggled sympathetically.

"Don't you hate paper matches?" she remarked. "I can never light the stupid things. If you want to get this over with, there's a box of wooden ones in the kitchen cabinet next to the refrigerator."

"I always had trouble with paper ones too," Christian said and paused for a moment to grin at her. "As a matter of fact, it was probably what saved me from getting into the smoking habit when I was about seventeen. Some so-called friend offered me a cigarette, and I thought I'd see what the fuss was all about…but I couldn't light the damned thing to save my life, since all he had was paper matches that just refused to cooperate with me. I told him that if I had to go to that much trouble just to get it lit, it wasn't worth it. He gave me a very strange look, blew a cloud of smoke in my face and walked away, which cemented my decision to avoid smoking once and for all."

Leslie burst out laughing. "If I had the name of that alleged friend of yours, I'd write him a thank-you note for turning you off that nasty habit." Christian laughed too and dropped the paper matches atop the parchment while she went after the wooden ones.

"Nobody ever tempted you to smoking, did they?" he asked when she returned.

"Someone tried," Leslie admitted. "I was seventeen too, and at the time there was a mumps epidemic going around Fantasy Island High. I remember telling Father and Tattoo, and Tattoo got all frantic and told Father he should keep me out of school. But he'd made sure I got booster shots shortly after I'd moved here, so he saw no reason to keep me home. Anyway, somehow all the other girls came down with mumps at the same time, and one fine day in late January I was eating lunch alone. There was this girl named Cori Mukulani who lived near the fishing village, I think. She was very overweight and had the world's shortest fuse—if you happened to look at her and she was in a bad mood, she'd pick a fight."

Christian snorted, amused. "Did you do something to provoke her that day?"

"It's probably just that I was there alone. She knew who I was, and I guess she thought it might be fun to try to corrupt Mr. Roarke's ward. She got all buddy-buddy with me and told me she had a secret…so, being dumb, I followed her back behind a storage shed on the school grounds. Next thing you know she was whipping out a pack of cancer sticks and telling me she was using them to lose weight. I thought she was nuts, and I said so; she just laughed at me, lit one, took a puff and tried to give it to me. I mean, she stuck it right in my face." Christian's eyes widened, and she nodded. "When she did that, the butt end flared up, and smoke curled up and somehow got right up my nose, and before I could stop myself I'd breathed it in. I coughed so hard I finally threw up. I completely grossed Cori out and wound up having to go home early, which meant I had to tell Father everything."

Christian started to laugh. "I hope he understood it wasn't your fault!" She nodded and laughed with him, and he struck a match and touched it to the corner of the parchment. The paper almost immediately caught, flaring up brightly in the tropical evening. Christian dropped in the match and slid his arm around Leslie; they stood and watched the paper burn. A breeze lifted their hair and shot some sparks in the air from their little fire, making them laugh again and huddle close.

When all that remained was a pile of ashes in the birdbath, Christian turned to Leslie and tilted her head back. "All I did was burn a piece of paper, but it feels symbolic: it seems as if I've been set free at long last. The count gave me a Christmas gift too, I think."

She smiled at him. "Both of us. Merry Christmas, my love."

"Merry Christmas, my Leslie Rose," he said softly and kissed her in the moonlight.  
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_One of my rather enormous cast of supporting characters will be pulled into the spotlight for the next tale. If it goes the way this one did, expect it within a week… (grin!!)_


End file.
